NRLF 


B   M   701 


SANTA     CRUZ 


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Gift  ol 

Mrs .  Edward  Webber 


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SANTA     CRUZ 


RANSON'S    FOLLY 


D. 

3 

1 
H 


RANSON'S 
FOLLY 


BY 


RICHARD   HARDING  DAVIS 

If 


WITH   ILLUSTRATIONS  BY 

Frederic  Remington^  Walter  Appleton   Clark, 

Howard  Chandler  Christy,  E.  M.  Ashe 

&T  F.  Dorr  Steele 


CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS 
NEW   YORK:::::::::::::::::  1908 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


''Throw  up  your  hands,"  he  commanded  .      .   Frontispiece 


FACING 
PAGE 


Ranson  faced  the  door,  spinning  the  revolver  around  his 

fourth  finger 88 

"I  suppose  I'm  the  ugliest  bull-dog  in  America"  .      .126 

"  Miss  Dorothy  snatches  me  up  and  kisses  me  between 

the  ears  " 144 

«'  We've  got  a  great  story  !     We  want  a  clear  wire  "    208 
He  played  to  the  empty  chair 244 

The  men  around  the  table    turned    and    glanced    toward 

the  gentleman  in   front  of  the  fireplace  .      .      .      .252 

"What  was  the  object  of  your  plot?" 342 


RANSON'S    FOLLY 


Ranson's  Folly 

PART  I 

THE  junior  officers  of  Fort  Crockett  had 
organized  a  mess  at  the  post-trader's. 
"  And  a  mess  it  certainly  is,"  said  Lieutenant 
Ranson.  The  dining-table  stood  between  hogs- 
heads of  molasses  and  a  blazing  log-fire,  the 
counter  of  the  store  was  their  buffet,  a  pool-table 
with  a  cloth,  blotted  like  a  map  of  the  Great 
Lakes,  their  sideboard,  and  Indian  Pete  acted  as 
butler.  But  none  of  these  things  counted  against 
the  great  fact  that  each  evening  Mary  Cahill,  the 
daughter  of  the  post-trader,  presided  over  the 
evening  meal,  and  turned  it  into  a  banquet.  From 
her  high  chair  behind  the  counter,  with  the  cash- 
register  on  her  one  side  and  the  weighing-scales  on 
the  other,  she  gave  her  little  Senate  laws,  and 
smiled  upon  each  and  all  with  the  kind  impar- 
tiality of  a  comrade. 

At  least,  at  one  time  she  had  been  impartial. 
But  of  late  she  smiled  upon  all  save  Lieutenant 
Ranson.  When  he  talked,  she  now  looked  at 


Ranson's  Folly 

the  blazing  log-fire,  and  her  cheeks  glowed  and 
her  eyes  seemed  to  reflect  the  lifting  flame. 

For  five  years,  ever  since  her  father  brought 
her  from  the  convent  at  St.  Louis,  Mary  Cahill 
had  watched  officers  come  and  officers  go.  Her 
knowledge  concerning  them,  and  their  public 
and  private  affairs,  was  vast  and  miscellaneous. 
She  was  acquainted  with  the  traditions  of  every 
regiment,  with  its  war  record,  with  its  peace-time 
politics,  its  nicknames,  its  scandals,  even  with 
the  earnings  of  each  company-canteen.  At  Fort 
Crockett,  which  lay  under  her  immediate  observa- 
tion, she  knew  more  of  what  was  going  forward 
than  did  the  regimental  adjutant,  more  even  than 
did  the  colonel's  wife.  If  Trumpeter  Tyler 
flatted  on  church  call,  if  Mrs.  Stickney  applied  to 
the  quartermaster  for  three  feet  of  stovepipe,  if 
Lieutenant  Curtis  were  granted  two  days*  leave 
for  quail-shooting,  Mary  Cahill  knew  it;  and  if 
Mrs.  "  Captain  "  Stairs  obtained  the  post-ambu- 
lance for  a  drive  to  Kiowa  City,  when  Mrs.  "  Cap- 
tain "  Ross  wanted  it  for  a  picnic,  she  knew  what 
words  passed  between  those  ladies,  and  which  of 
the  two  wept.  She  knew  all  of  these  things,  for 
each  evening  they  were  retailed  to  her  by  her 
<c  boarders."  Her  boarders  were  very  loyal  to 
Mary  Cahill.  Her  position  was  a  difficult  one, 
and  had  it  not  been  that  the  boy-officers  were  so 

4 


Ranson's  Folly 

understanding,  it  would  have  been  much  more 
difficult.  For  the  life  of  a  regimental  post  is  as 
circumscribed  as  the  life  on  a  ship-of-war,  and  it 
would  no  more  be  possible  for  the  ship's  barber 
to  rub  shoulders  with  the  admiral's  epaulets  than 
that  a  post-trader's  child  should  visit  the  ladies  on 
the  "  line,"  or  that  the  wives  of  the  enlisted  men 
should  dine  with  the  young  girl  from  whom  they 
"  took  in  "  washing. 

So,  between  the  upper  and  the  nether  grind- 
stones, Mary  Cahill  was  left  without  the  society  of 
her  own  sex,  and  was  of  necessity  forced  to  content 
herself  with  the  society  of  the  officers.  And  the 
officers  played  fair.  Loyalty  to  Mary  Cahill  was 
a  tradition  at  Fort  Crockett,  which  it  was  the  duty 
of  each  succeeding  regiment  to  sustain.  More- 
over, her  father,  a  dark,  sinister  man,  alive  only 
to  money-making,  was  known  to  handle  a  revolver 
with  the  alertness  of  a  town-marshal. 

Since  the  day  she  left  the  convent  Mary  Cahill 
had  held  but  two  affections :  one  for  this  grim, 
taciturn  parent,  who  brooded  over  her  as  jealously 
as  a  lover,  and  the  other  for  the  entire  United 
States  Army.  The  Army  returned  her  affection 
without  the  jealousy  of  the  father,  and  with  much 
more  than  his  effusiveness.  But  when  Lieutenant 
Ranson  arrived  from  the  Philippines,  the  affec- 
tions of  Mary  Cahill  became  less  generously  dis- 

5 


Ranson's  Folly 

tributed,  and  her  heart  fluttered  hourly  between 
trouble  and  joy. 

There  were  two  rooms  on  the  first  floor  of  the 
post-trader's — this  big  one,  which  only  officers 
and  their  women-folk  might  enter,  and  the  other, 
the  exchange  of  the  enlisted  men.  The  two  were 
separated  by  a  partition  of  logs  and  hung  with 
shelves  on  which  were  displayed  calicoes,  tinned 
meats,  and  patent  medicines.  A  door,  cut  in  one 
end  of  the  partition,  with  buffalo-robes  for  por- 
tieres, permitted  Cahill  to  pass  from  behind  the 
counter  of  one  store  to  behind  the  counter  of  the 
other.  On  one  side  Mary  Cahill  served  the 
Colonel's  wife  with  many  yards  of  silk  ribbons  to 
be  converted  into  german  favors,  on  the  other  her 
father  weighed  out  bears'  claws  (manufactured  in 
Hartford,  Conn.,  from  turkey-bones)  to  make  a 
necklace  for  Red  Wing,  the  squaw  of  the  Arrephao 
chieftain.  He  waited  upon  everyone  with  grav- 
ity, and  in  obstinate  silence.  No  one  had  ever 
seen  Cahill  smile.  He  himself  occasionally  joked 
with  others  in  a  grim  and  embarrassed  manner. 
But  no  one  had  ever  joked  with  him.  It  was  re* 
ported  that  he  came  from  New  York,  where,  it 
was  whispered,  he  had  once  kept  bar  on  the  Bowery 
for  McTurk. 

Sergeant  Clancey,  of  G  Troop,  was  the  authority 
for  this.  But  when,  presuming  on  that  suppo- 

6 


Ranson's  Folly 

sition,  he  claimed  acquaintanceship  with 
the  post-trader  spread  out  his  hands  on  the 
counter  and  stared  at  the  sergeant  with  cold  and 
disconcerting  eyes.  "  I  never  kept  bar  nowhere/3 
he  said.  "  I  never  been  on  the  Bowery,  never 
been  in  New  York,  never  been  east  of  Denver  in 
my  life.  What  was  it  you  ordered  ?  *' 

"Well,  mebbe  I'm  wrong,"  growled  the  ser- 
geant. 

But  a  month  later,  when  a  coyote  howled  down 
near  the  Indian  village,  the  sergeant  said  insinu- 
atingly, "  Sounds  just  like  the  cry  of  the  Whyos^ 
don't  it  ? "  And  Cahill,  who  was  listening  to  the 
wolf,  unthinkingly  nodded  his  head. 

The  sergeant  snorted  in  triumph.  "Yah,  I 
told  you  so  !  "  he  cried,  <c  a  man  that's  never  been 
on  the  Bowery,  and  knows  the  call  of  the  Whyo 
gang  !  The  drinks  are  on  you,  Cahill." 

The  post-trader  did  not  raise  his  eyes,  but  drew 
a  damp  cloth  up  and  down  the  counter,  slowly 
and  heavily,  as  a  man  sharpens  a  knife  on  a  whet- 
stone. 

That  night,  as  the  sergeant  went  up  the  path 
to  the  post,  a  bullet  passed  through  his  hat, 
Clancey  was  a  forceful  man,  and  forceful  menj, 
unknown  to  themselves,  make  enemies,  so  he 
was  uncertain  as  to  whether  this  came  from  a 
trooper  he  had  borne  upon  too  harshly,  of 

7 


Ranson's  Folly 

whether,  in  the  darkness,  he  had  been  picked  off 
for  someone  else.  The  next  night,  as  he  passed 
in  the  full  light  of  the  post-trader's  windows,  a 
shot  came  from  among  the  dark  shadows  of  the 
corral,  and  when  he  immediately  sought  safety  in 
numbers  among  the  Indians,  cowboys,  and  troop- 
ers in  the  exchange,  he  was  in  time  to  see  Cahill 
enter  it  from  the  other  store,  wrapping  up  a  bottle 
of  pain-killer  for  Mrs.  Stickney's  cook.  But 
Clancey  was  not  deceived.  He  observed  with 
satisfaction  that  the  soles  and  the  heels  of  Cahill's 
boots  were  wet  with  the  black  mud  of  the  corral. 

The  next  morning,  when  the  exchange  was 
empty,  the  post-trader  turned  from  arranging 
cans  of  condensed  milk  upon  an  upper  shelf  to 
face  the  sergeant's  revolver. 

He  threw  up  his  hands  to  the  level  of  his  ears 
as  though  expressing  sharp  unbelief,  and  waited 
in  silence.  The  sergeant  advanced  until  the  gun 
rested  on  the  counter,  its  muzzle  pointing  at  the 
pit  of  Cahill's  stomach.  "  You  or  me  has  got  to 
leave  this  post,"  said  the  sergeant,  "  and  I  can't 
desert,  so  I  guess  it's  up  to  you." 

64  What  did  you  talk  for  ? "  asked  Cahill.  His 
attitude  was  still  that  of  shocked  disbelief,  but  his 
tone  expressed  a  full  acceptance  of  the  situation 
and  a  desire  to  temporize. 

"At  first  I  thought  it  might  be  that  new 
8 


Ranson's  Folly 

ccruity*  in  F  Troop/'  explained  the  sergeant 
"  You  came  near  making  me  kill  the  wrong  man. 
What  harm  did  I  do  you  by  saying  you  kept  bar 
for  McTurk  ?  What's  there  in  that  to  get  hot 
about?" 

"  You  said  I  run  with  the  Whyos." 

"  What  the  h — 1  do  I  care  what  youVe  done  !  " 
roared  the  sergeant.  "  I  don't  know  nothing 
about  you,  but  I  don't  mean  you  should  shoot 
me  in  the  back.  I'm  going  to  tell  this  to  my 
bunky,  an'  if  I  get  shot  up,  the  Troop'll  know 
who  done  it,  and  you'll  hang  for  it.  Now,  what 
are  you  going  to  do  ?  " 

Cahill  did  not  tell  what  he  would  do  ;  for,  from 
the  other  store,  the  low  voice  of  Mary  Cahill 
called,  "  Father  !  Oh,  father  !  " 

The  two  men  dodged,  and  eyed  each  other 
guiltily.  The  sergeant  gazed  at  the  buffalo-robe 
portieres  with  wide-opened  eyes.  Cahill's  hands 
dropped  from  the  region  of  his  ears,  and  fell  flat 
upon  the  counter. 

When  Miss  Mary  Cahill  pushed  aside  the 
portieres  Sergeant  Clancey,  of  G  Troop,  was  show- 
ing her  father  the  mechanism  of  the  new  regulation- 
revolver.  He  apparently  was  having  some  diffi- 
culty with  the  cylinder,  for  his  face  was  red.  Her 
father  was  eying  the  gun  with  the  critical  approval 
of  an  expert. 

9 


Ranson's  Folly 

"  Father,"  said  Miss  Cahill  petulantly,  "  why 
didn't  you  answer  ?  Where  is  the  blue  stationery 
—the  sort  Major  Ogden  always  buys  ?  He's 
waiting." 

The  eyes  of  the  post-trader  did  not  wander 
from  the  gun  before  him.  "  Next  to  the  blank 
books,  Mame,"  he  said.  "  On  the  second 
shelf." 

Miss  Cahill  flashed  a  dazzling  smile  at  the  big 
sergeant,  and  whispered,  so  that  the  officer  in  the 
room  behind  her  might  not  overhear,  "  Is  he 
trying  to  sell  you  Government  property,  dad  ? 
Don't  you  touch  it.  Sergeant,  I'm  surprised  at 
you  tempting  my  poor  father."  She  pulled  the 
two  buffalo-robes  close  around  her  neck  so  that 
her  face  only  showed  between  them.  It  was  a 
sweet,  lovely  face,  with  frank,  boyish  eyes. 

"  When  the  major's  gone,  sergeant,"  she  whis- 
pered, "  bring  your  gun  around  my  side  of  the 
store  and  I'll  buy  it  from  you." 

The  sergeant  nodded  in  violent  assent,  laughing 
noiselessly  and  slapping  his  knee  in  a  perfect 
ecstasy  of  delight. 

The  curtains  dropped  and  the  face  disappeared. 

The  sergeant  fingered  the  gun  and  Cahill 
folded  his  arms  defiantly. 

"Well?  "he  said. 

"  Well  ?  "  asked  the  sergeant. 


10 


Ranson's  Folly 

"  I  should  think  you  could  see  how  it  is,"  said 
Cahill,  cc  without  my  having  to  tell  you." 

"  You  mean  you  don't  want  she  should  know  ?  " 

"  My  God,  no  !     Not  even  that  I  kept  a  bar." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  nothing.  I  don't  mean 
to  tell  nothing,  anyway,  so  if  you'll  promise  to  be 
good  I'll  call  this  off." 

For  the  first  time  in  the  history  of  Fort 
Crockett,  Cahill  was  seen  to  smile.  "  May  I 
reach  under  the  counter  now  ?  "  he  asked. 

The  sergeant  grinned  appreciatively,  and  shifted 
his  gun.  "  Yes,  but  I'll  keep  this  out  until  I'm 
sure  it's  a  bottle,"  he  said,  and  laughed  boister- 
ously. 

For  an  instant,  under  the  cover  of  the  counter, 
Cahill's  hand  touched  longingly  upon  the  gun 
that  lay  there,  and  then  passed  on  to  the  bottle 
beside  it.  He  drew  it  forth,  and  there  was  the 
clink  of  glasses. 

In  the  other  room  Mary  Cahill  winked  at  the 
major,  but  that  officer  pretended  to  be  both  deaf 
to  the  clink  of  the  glasses  and  blind  to  the  wink. 
And  so  the  incident  was  closed.  Had  it  not  been 
for  the  folly  of  Lieutenant  Ranson  it  would  have 
remained  closed. 

A  week  before  this  happened  a  fire  had  started 
in  the  Willow  Bottoms  among  the  tepees  of  some 
Kiowas,  and  the  prairie,  as  far  as  one  could  see, 


ii 


Ranson's  Folly 


was  bruised  and  black.  From  the  post  it  looked 
as  though  the  sky  had  been  raining  ink.  At  the 
time  all  of  the  regiment  but  G  and  H  Troops 
was  out  on  a  practice-march,  experimenting  with  a 
new-fangled  tabloid-ration.  As  soon  as  it  turned 
the  buttes  it  saw  from  where  the  light  in  the 
heavens  came  and  the  practice-march  became  a 
race. 

At  the  post  the  men  had  doubled  out  under 
Lieutenant  Ranson  with  wet  horse-blankets,  and 
while  he  led  G  Troop  to  fight  the  flames,  H 
Troop,  under  old  Major  Stickney,  burned  a  space 
around  the  post,  across  which  the  men  of  G  Troop 
retreated,  stumbling,  with  their  ears  and  shoulders 
wrapped  in  the  smoking  blankets.  The  sparks 
beat  upon  them  and  the  flames  followed  so  fast 
that,  as  they  ran,  the  blazing  grass  burned  their 
lacings,  and  they  kicked  their  gaiters  ahead  of 
them. 

When  the  regiment  arrived  it  found  everybody 
at  Fort  Crockett  talking  enthusiastically  of  Ran- 
son^ conduct  and  resentfully  of  the  fact  that  he 
had  regarded  the  fire  as  one  which  had  been  started 
for  his  especial  amusement. 

"  I  assure  you,"  said  Mrs.  Holland  to  the 
colonel,  "  if  it  hadn't  been  for  young  Ranson  we 
would  have  been  burned  in  our  beds  ;  but  he  was 
most  aggravating.  He  treated  it  as  though  it  were 

12 


Ranson's  Folly 

Fourth  of  July  fireworks.  It  is  the  only  enter- 
tainment we  have  been  able  to  offer  him  since  he 
joined  in  which  he  has  shown  the  slightest  in- 
terest." Nevertheless,  it  was  generally  admitted 
that  Ranson  had  saved  the  post.  He  had  been 
ubiquitous.  He  had  been  seen  galloping  into  the 
advancing  flames  like  a  stampeded  colt,  he  had 
reappeared  like  a  wraith  in  columns  of  black, 
whirling  smoke,  at  the  same  moment  his  voice 
issued  orders  from  twenty  places.  One  instant  he 
was  visible  beating  back  the  fire  with  a  wet  blanket, 
waving  it  above  him  jubilantly,  like  a  substitute 
at  the  Army-Navy  game  when  his  side  scores, 
and  the  next  staggering  from  out  of  the  furnace 
dragging  an  asphyxiated  trooper  by  the  collar,  and 
shrieking,  "  Hospital-steward,  hospital-steward  1 
here's  a  man  on  fire.  Put  him  out,  and  send  him 
back  to  me,  quick  !  " 

Those  who  met  him  in  the  whirlwind  of  smoke 
and  billowing  flame  related  that  he  chuckled  con- 
tinuously. "  Isn't  this  fun  ?  "  he  yelled  at  them. 
"  Say,  isn't  this  the  best  ever  ?  I  wouldn't  have 
missed  this  for  a  trip  to  New  York  !  " 

When  the  colonel,  having  visited  the  hospital 
and  spoken  cheering  words  to  those  who  were 
sans  hair,  sans  eyebrows  and  with  bandaged  hands, 
complimented  Lieutenant  Ranson  on  the  parade- 
ground  before  the  assembled  regiment,  Ranson 

if 


Ranson's  Folly 

ran  to  his  hwt  muttering  strange  and  fearful 
oaths. 

That  night  at  mess  he  appealed  to  Mary  Cahill 
for  sympathy.  "  Goodness,  mighty  me ! "  he 
cried,  "  did  you  hear  him  ?  Wasn't  it  awful  ?  If 
I'd  thought  he  was  going  to  hand  me  that  I'd 
have  deserted.  What's  the  use  of  spoiling  the 
only  fun  we've  had  that  way  ?  Why,  if  I'd  known 
you  could  get  that  much  excitement  out  of  this 
rank  prairie  I'd  have  put  a  match  to  it  myself 
three  months  ago.  It's  the  only  fun  I've  had,  and 
he  goes  and  preaches  a  funeral  oration  at  me." 

Ranson  came  into  the  army  at  the  time  of  the 
Spanish  war  because  it  promised  a  new  form  of 
excitement,  and  because  everybody  else  he  knew 
had  gone  into  it  too.  As  the  son  of  his  father  he 
was  made  an  adjutant-general  of  volunteers  with 
the  rank  of  captain,  and  unloaded  on  the  staff  of 
a  Southern  brigadier,  who  was  slated  never  to  leave 
Charleston.  But  Ranson  suspected  this,  and, 
after  telegraphing  his  father  for  three  days,  was 
attached  to  the  Philippines  contingent  and  sailed 
from  San  Francisco  in  time  to  carry  messages 
through  the  surf  when  the  volunteers  moved  upon 
Manila.  More  cabling  at  the  cost  of  many  Mex- 
ican dollars  caused  him  to  be  removed  from  the 
staff,  and  given  a  second  lieutenancy  in  a  volun- 
teer regiment,  and  for  two  years  he  pursued  the 

14 


Ranson's  Folly 

little  brown  men  over  the  paddy  sluices,  burned 
villages,  looted  churches,  and  collected  bolos  and 
altar-cloths  with  that  irresponsibility  and  contempt 
for  regulations  which  is  found  chiefly  in  the  ap- 
pointment from  civil  life.  Incidentally,  he  en- 
joyed himself  so  much  that  he  believed  in  the 
army  he  had  found  the  one  place  where  excitement 
is  always  in  the  air,  and  as  excitement  was  the 
breath  of  his  nostrils  he  applied  for  a  commission 
in  the  regular  army.  On  his  record  he  was  ap- 
pointed a  second  lieutenant  in  the  Twentieth 
Cavalry,  and  on  the  return  of  that  regiment  to 
the  States — was  buried  alive  at  Fort  Crockett. 

After  six  months  of  this  exile,  one  night  at  the 
mess-table  Ranson  broke  forth  in  open  rebellion. 
"  I  tell  you  I  can't  stand  it  a  day  longer,"  he  cried. 
cc  I'm  going  to  resign  !  " 

From  behind  the  counter  Mary  Cahill  heard 
him  in  horror.  Second  Lieutenants  Crosby  and 
Curtis  shuddered.  They  were  sons  of  officers  of 
the  regular  army.  Only  six  months  before  they 
themselves  had  been  forwarded  from  West  Point, 
done  up  in  neat  new  uniforms.  The  traditions 
of  the  Academy  of  loyalty  and  discipline  had  been 
kneaded  into  their  vertebrae.  In  Ranson  they 
saw  only  the  horrible  result  of  giving  commissions 
to  civilians. 

"  Maybe  the  post  will  be  gayer  now  that  spring 
'5 


Ranson's  Folly 

has  come/'  said  Curtis  hopefully,  but  with  a 
doubtful  look  at  the  open  fire. 

"  I  wouldn't  do  anything  rash/'  urged  Crosby. 

Miss  Cahill  shook  her  head.  "  Why,  I  like  it 
at  the  post/1  she  said,  cc  and  I've  been  here  five 
years — ever  since  I  left  the  convent — and  I " 

Ranson  interrupted,  bowing  gallantly.  "Yes5 
I  know,  Miss  Cahill,"  he  said,  "  but  I  didn't  come 
here  from  a  convent.  I  came  here  from  the 
blood-stained  fields  of  war.  Now,  out  in  the 
Philippines  there's  always  something  doing. 
They  give  you  half  a  troop,  and  so  long  as  you 
bring  back  enough  Mausers  and  don't  get  your 
men  cut  up,  you  can  fight  all  over  the  shop  and 
no  questions  asked.  But  all  I  do  here  is  take 
care  of  sick  horses.  Any  vet.  in  the  States  has 
seen  as  much  fighting  as  1  have  in  the  last  half- 
year.  I  might  as  well  have  had  charge  of  horse- 
car  stables." 

"There  is  some  truth  in  that,"  said  Curtis 
cautiously.  "  If  you  do  resign,  certainly  no  one 
can  accuse  you  of  resigning  in  the  face  of  the 
enemy." 

"  Enemy,  ye  gods  !  "  roared  Ranson.  "  Why, 
if  I  were  to  see  a  Moro  entering  that  door  with  a 
bolo  in  each  fist  I'd  fall  on  his  neck  and  kiss  him. 
I'm  not  trained  to  this  garrison  business.  You 
fellows  are.  They  took  all  the  sporting  blood 

16 


Ranson's   Folly 

out  of  you  at  West  Point ;  one  bad  mark  for 
smoking  a  cigarette,  two  bad  marks  for  failing  to 
salute  the  instructor  in  botany,  and  all  the  excite- 
ment you  ever  knew  were  charades  and  a  cadet- 
hop  at  Cullum  Hall.  But,  you  see,  before  I 
went  to  the  Philippines  with  Merritt,  I'd  been 
there  twice  on  a  fellow's  yacht,  and  we'd  tucked 
the  Spanish  governor  in  his  bed  with  his  spurs  on. 
Now,  I  have  to  sit  around  and  hear  old  Holland 
tell  how  he  put  down  a  car-strike  in  St.  Louis, 
and  Stickney's  long-winded  yarns  of  Table  Moun- 
tain and  the  Bloody  Angle.  He  doesn't  know  the 
Civil  War's  over.  I  tell  you,  if  I  can't  get  excite- 
ment on  tap  I've  got  to  make  it,  and  if  I  make  it 
out  here  they'll  court-martial  me.  So  there's 
nothing  for  it  but  to  resign." 

"  You'd  better  wait  till  the  end  of  the  week,'1 
said  Crosby,  grinning.  "  It's  going  to  be  full 
of  gayety.  Thursday,  paymaster's  coming  out 
with  our  cash,  and  to-night  that  Miss  Post  from 
New  York  arrives  in  the  up  stage.  She's  to  visit 
the  colonel,  so  everybody  will  have  to  give  her 
a  good  time." 

"  Yes,  I  certainly  must  wait  for  that,"  growled 
Ranson ;  "  there  probably  will  be  progressive 
euchre  parties  all  along  the  line,  and  we'll  sit  up 
as  late  as  ten  o'clock  and  stick  little  gilt  stars 
on  ourselves." 


Ranson's  Folly 

Crosby  laughed  tolerantly. 

"  I  see  your  point  of  view,"  he  said.  "  I  re- 
member when  my  father  took  me  to  Monte  Carlo 
I  saw  you  at  the  tables  with  enough  money  in 
front  of  you  to  start  a  bank.  I  remember  my 
father  asked  the  croupiers  why  they  allowed  a 
child  of  your  age  to  gamble.  I  was  just  a  kid 
then,  and  so  were  you,  too.  I  remember  I  thought 
you  were  the  devil  of  a  fellow." 

Ranson  looked  sheepishly  at  Miss  Cahill  and 
laughed.  Cf  Well,  so  I  was — then,"  he  said. 
"Anybody  would  be  a  devil  of  a  fellow  who'd 
been  brought  up  as  I  was,  with  a  doting  parent 
who  owns  a  trust  and  doesn't  know  the  proper 
value  of  money.  And  yet  you  expect  me  to  be 
happy  with  a  fifty-cent  limit  game,  and  twenty 
miles  of  burned  prairie.  I  tell  you  I've  never 
been  broken  to  it.  I  don't  know  what  not  having 
your  own  way  means.  And  discipline  !  Why, 
every  time  I  have  to  report  one  of  my  men  to  the 
colonel  I  send  for  him  afterward  and  give  him  a 
drink  and  apologize  to  him.  I  tell  you  the  army 
doesn't  mean  anything  to  me  unless  there's  some- 
thing doing,  and  as  there  is  no  fighting  out  here 
I'm  for  the  back  room  of  the  Holland  House  and 
a  rubber-tired  automobile.  Little  old  New  York 
is  good  enough  for  me  ! " 

As  he  spoke  these  fateful  words  of  mutiny 
18 


Ranson's  Folly 

Lieutenant  Ranson  raised  his  black  eyes  and 
snatched  a  swift  side-glance  at  the  face  of  Mary 
Cahill.  It  was  almost  as  though  it  were  from  her 
he  sought  his  answer.  He  could  not  himself  have 
told  what  it  was  he  would  have  her  say.  But  ever 
since  the  idea  of  leaving  the  army  had  come  to 
him,  Mary  Cahill  and  the  army  had  become  inter- 
changeable and  had  grown  to  mean  one  and  the 
same  thing.  He  fought  against  this  condition  of 
mind  fiercely.  He  had  determined  that  without 
active  service  the  army  was  intolerable ;  but  that 
without  Mary  Cahill  civil  life  would  also  prove 
intolerable,  he  assured  himself  did  not  at  all  fol- 
low. He  had  laughed  at  the  idea.  He  had  even 
argued  it  out  sensibly.  Was  it  reasonable  to  sup- 
pose, he  asked  himself,  that  after  circling  the  great 
globe  three  times  he  should  find  the  one  girl  on  it 
who  alone  could  make  him  happy,  sitting  behind 
a  post-trader's  counter  on  the  open  prairie  P  His 
interest  in  Miss  Cahill  was  the  result  of  propin- 
quity, that  was  all.  It  was  due  to  the  fact  that 
there  was  no  one  else  at  hand,  because  he  was 
sorry  for  her  loneliness,  because  her  absurd  social 
ostracism  had  touched  his  sympathy.  How  long 
after  he  reached  New  York  would  he  remember 
the  little  comrade  with  the  brave,  boyish  eyes  set 
in  the  delicate,  feminine  head,  with  its  great  waves 
of  gorgeous  hair?  It  would  not  be  long,  he 

19 


Ranson's  Folly 

guessed.  He  might  remember  the  way  she  rode 
her  pony,  how  she  swung  from  her  Mexican  saddle 
and  caught  up  a  gauntlet  from  the  ground.  Yes, 
he  certainly  would  remember  that,  and  he  would 
remember  the  day  he  had  galloped  after  her  and 
ridden  with  her  through  the  Indian  village,  and 
again  that  day  when  they  rode  to  the  water-fall 
and  the  Lover's  Leap.  And  he  would  remember 
her  face  at  night  as  it  bent  over  the  books  he  bor- 
rowed for  her,  which  she  read  while  they  were  at 
mess,  sitting  in  her  high  chair  with  her  chin  rest- 
ing in  her  palms,  staring  down  at  the  book  before 
her.  And  the  trick  she  had,  whenever  he  spoke, 
of  raising  her  head  and  looking  into  the  fire,  her 
eyes  lighting  and  her  lips  smiling.  They  would 
be  pleasant  memories,  he  was  sure.  But  once  back 
again  in  the  whirl  and  rush  of  the  great  world  out- 
side of  Fort  Crockett,  even  as  memories  they 
would  pass  away. 

Mary  Cahill  made  no  outward  answer  to  the  re- 
bellious utterance  of  Lieutenant  Ranson.  She  only 
bent  her  eyes  on  her  book  and  tried  to  think  what 
the  post  would  hold  for  her  when  he  had  carried 
out  his  threat  and  betaken  himself  into  the  world 
and  out  of  her  life  forever.  Night  a*ter  night  she 
had  sat  enthroned  behind  her  barrier  and  listened 
to  his  talk,  wondering  deeply.  He  had  talked  of 
a  world  she  knew  only  in  novels,  in  history,  and 


20 


Ranson's  Folly 

in  books  of  travel.  His  view  of  it  was  not  an 
educational  one:  he  was  no  philosopher,  nor 
trained  observer.  He  remembered  London — 
to  her  the  capital  of  the  world — chiefly  by  its 
restaurants,  Cairo  on  account  of  its  execrable  golf- 
links.  He  lived  only  to  enjoy  himself.  His  view 
was  that  of  a  boy,  hearty  and  healthy  and  seeking 
only  excitement  and  mischief.  She  had  heard  his 
tales  of  his  brief  career  at  Harvard,  of  the  reunions 
at  Henry's  American  bar,  of  the  Futurity,  the 
Suburban,  the  Grand  Prix,  of  a  yachting  cruise 
which  apparently  had  encountered  every  form  of 
adventure,  from  the  rescuing  of  a  stranded  opera- 
company  to  the  ramming  of  a  slaver's  dhow.  The 
regret  with  which  he  spoke  of  these  free  days, 
which  was  the  regret  of  an  exile  marooned  upon  a 
desert  island,  excited  all  her  sympathy  for  an  ili 
she  had  never  known.  His  discourteous  scorn  of 
the  sociai  pleasures  of  the  post,  from  which  she 
herself  was  excluded,  filled  her  with  speculation. 
If  he  could  forego  these  functions,  how  full  and 
gay  she  argued  his  former  life  must  have  been. 
His  attitude  helped  her  to  bear  the  deprivations 
more  easily.  And  she,  as  a  loyal  child  ot  the 
army,  liked  him  also  because  he  was  no  u  cracker- 
box"  captain,  but  a  fighter,  who  had  fought  with 
no  morbid  ideas  as  to  the  rights  or  wrongs  of  the 
cause,  but  for  the  fun  of  fighting. 


21 


Ranson's  Folly 

And  one  night,  after  he  had  been  telling  the 
mess  of  a  Filipino  officer  who  alone  had  held  back 
his  men  and  himself,  and  who  at  last  died  in  his 
arms  cursing  him,  she  went  to  sleep  declaring  to 
herself  that  Lieutenant  Ranson  was  becoming  too 
like  the  man  she  had  pictured  for  her  husband 
than  was  good  for  her  peace  of  mind.  He  had 
told  the  story  as  his  tribute  to  a  brave  man  fight- 
ing for  his  independence  and  with  such  regret 
that  such  a  one  should  have  died  so  miserably, 
that,  to  the  embarrassment  of  the  mess,  the  tears 
rolled  down  his  cheeks.  But  he  wiped  them  away 
with  his  napkin  as  unconcernedly  as  though  they 
were  caused  by  the  pepper-box,  and  said  simply, 
"  He  had  sporting  blood,  he  had.  I've  never  felt 
so  bad  about  anything  as  I  did  about  that  chap. 
Whenever  I  think  of  him  standing  up  there  with 
his  back  to  the  cathedral  all  shot  to  pieces,  but 
giving  us  what  for  until  he  died,  it  makes  me  cry. 
So,"*  he  added,  blowing  his  nose  vigorously,  "  I 
won't  think  of  it  any  more." 

Tears  are  properly  a  woman's  weapon,  and  when 
a  man  makes  use  of  them,  even  in  spite  of  himself 
he  is  taking  an  advantage  over  the  other  sex  which 
is  unfair  and  outrageous.  Lieutenant  Ranson  never 
knew  the  mischief  the  sympathy  he  had  shown  for 
his  enemy  caused  in  the  heart  of  Mary  Cahill,  nor 
that  from  that  moment  she  loved  him  deeply. 

22 


Ranson's  Folly 

The  West  Point  graduates  before  they  answered 
Ranson's  ultimatum  smoked  their  cigarettes  for 
some  time  in  silence. 

"  Oh,  there's  been  fighting  even  at  Fort 
Crockett/'  said  Crosby.  "In  the  last  two  years 
the  men  have  been  ordered  out  seven  times, 
haven't  they,  Miss  Cahill?  When  the  Indians 
got  out  of  hand,  and  twice  after  cowboys,  and 
twice  after  the  Red  Rider." 

"The  Red  Rider!"  protested  Ranson ;  "I 
don't  see  anything  exciting  in  rounding  up  one 
miserable  horse  thief." 

"  Only  they  don't  round  him  up,"  returned 
Curtis  crossly.  "  That's  why  it's  exciting.  He's 
the  best  in  his  business.  He's  held  up  the  stage 
six  times  now  in  a  year.  Whoever  the  fellow  is, 
if  he's  one  man  or  a  gang  of  men,  he's  the  nervi- 
est road-agent  since  the  days  of  Abe  Case." 

Ranson  in  his  then  present  mood  was  inclined 
toward  pessimism.  "  It  doesn't  take  any  nerve 
to  hold  up  a  coach,"  he  contradicted. 

Curtis  and  Crosby  snorted  in  chorus.  "  That's 
what  you  say/'  mocked  Curtis. 

"  Well,  it  doesn't,"  repeated  Ranson.  "  It's  all 
a  game  of  bluff.  The  etiquette  is  that  the  driver 
mustn't  shoot  the  road-agent,  and  that  the  road- 
agent  mustn't  hurt  the  driver,  and  the  passengers 
are  too  scared  to  move.  The  moment  they  see  a 

23 


Ranson's  Folly 

man  rise  out  of  the  night  they  throw  up  their 
hands.  Why,  even  when  a  passenger  does  try  to 
pull  his  gun  the  others  won't  let  him.  Each 
thinks  sure  that  if  there's  any  firing  he  will  be  the 
one  to  get  hurt.  And,  besides,  they  don't  know 
how  many  more  men  the  road  agent  may  have 
behind  him.  1  don't " 

A  movement  on  the  part  of  Miss  Cahill  caused 
him  to  pause  abruptly.  Miss  Cahill  had  de- 
scended from  her  throne  and  was  advancing  to 
meet  the  post-trader,  who  came  toward  her  from 
the  exchange. 

"  Lightfoot's  squaw,"  he  said.  "  Her  baby's 
worse.  She's  sent  for  you." 

Miss  Cahill  gave  a  gasp  of  sympathy,  snatched 
up  her  hat  from  the  counter,  and  the  buffalo  robes 
closed  behind  her. 

Ranson  stooped  and  reached  for  his  sombrero,. 
With  the  flight  of  Miss  Cahill  his  interest  in  the 
courage  of  the  Red  Rider  had  departed  also. 

But  Crosby  appealed  to  the  new-comer, "  Cahill, 
you  know,"  he  said.  "  We've  been  talking  of  the 
man  they  call  the  Red  Rider,  the  chap  that  wears 
a  red  bandanna  over  his  face.  Ranson  says  he 
hasn't  any  nerve.  That's  not  so,  is  it?  " 

"  I  said  it  didn't  take  any  nerve  to  hold  up  a 
stage,"  said  Ranson  ;  "  and  it  doesn't.' 

The  post-trader  halted  on  his  way  back  to  the 

24 


Ranson's   Folly 

exchange  and  rubbed  one  hand  meditatively  over 
the  other  arm.  With  him  speech  was  golden  and 
difficult.  After  a  pause  he  said  :  "  Oh,  he  takes 
his  chances." 

"  Of  course  he  does/'  cried  Crosby,  encourag- 
ingly. cc  He  takes  the  chance  of  being  shot  by 
the  passengers,  and  of  being  caught  by  the  posse 
and  lynched,  but  this  man's  got  away  with  it  now 
six  times  in  the  last  yean  And  I  say  that  takes 


nerve." 


"  Why,  for  fifty  dollars —  "  laughed  Ransom. 

He  checked  himself,  and  glanced  over  his 
shoulder  at  the  retreating  figure  of  Cahill.  The 
buffalo  robes  fell  again,  and  the  spurs  of  the  post- 
trader  could  be  heard  jangling  over  the  earth-floor 
of  the  exchange. 

"  For  fifty  dollars,"  repeated  Ranson,  in  brisk, 
Businesslike  tones,  c<  I'll  rob  the  up  stage  to-night 

myself!  " 

Previous  knowledge  of  his  moods,  the  sudden 
look  of  mischief  in  his  eyes  and  a  certain  vibration 
in  his  voice  caused  the  two  lieutenants  to  jump 
simultaneously  to  their  feet.  "  Ranson  !  "  they 
shouted. 

Hanson  laughed  mockingly.  "  Oh,  I'm  bored 
to  death,"  he  cried.  "  What  will  you  bet  I 
don't?  •' 

He  had  risen  with  them,  but,  without  waiting 
25 


Ranson's  Folly 

for  their  answer,  ran  to  where  his  horse  stood  at 
the  open  door.  He  sank  on  his  knees  and  began 
tugging  violently  at  the  stirrup-straps.  The  two 
officers,  their  eyes  filled  with  concern,  pursued  him 
across  the  room.  With  Cahill  twenty  feet  away, 
they  dared  not  raise  their  voices,  but  in  pantomime 
they  beckoned  him  vigorously  to  return.  Ranson 
came  at  once,  flushed  and  smiling,  holding  a 
hooded  army-stirrup  in  each  hand.  "  Never  do 
to  have  them  see  these  !  "  he  said.  He  threw  the 
stirrups  from  him,  behind  the  row  of  hogsheads 
"  I'll  ride  in  the  stirrup-straps  !  "  He  still  spoke 
in  the  same  low,  brisk  tone. 

Crosby  seized  him  savagely  by  the  arm.  cc  No, 
you  won't !  "  he  hissed.  "  Look  here,  Ranson. 
Listen  to  me  ;  for  Heaven's  sake  don't  be  an  ass  I 
They'll  shoot  you,  you'll  be  killed " 

— "  And  court-martialed,"  panted  Curtis. 

"  You'll  go  to  Leavenworth  for  the  rest  of  your 
life  !  " 

Ranson  threw  off"  the  detaining  hand,  and  ran 
behind  the  counter.  From  a  lower  shelf  he 
snatched  a  red  bandanna  kerchief.  From  another 
he  dragged  a  rubber  poncho,  and  buttoned  it  high 
about  his  throat.  He  picked  up  the  steel  shears 
which  lay  upon  the  counter,  and  snipping  two 
holes  in  the  red  kerchief,  stuck  it  under  the  brim 
of  his  sombrero.  It  fell  before  his  face  like  a  cur- 

26 


Ranson's  Folly 

tain.  From  his  neck  to  his  knees  the  poncho 
concealed  his  figure.  All  that  was  visible  of  him 
was  his  eyes,  laughing  through  the  holes  in  the 
red  mask. 

«  Behold  the  Red  Rider  !  "  he  groaned.  "  Hold 
up  your  hands  !  " 

He  pulled  the  kerchief  from  his  face  and  threw 
the  poncho  over  his  arm.  "  Do  you  see  these 
shears  ?  "  he  whispered.  "  I'm  going  to  hold  up 
the  stage  with  'em.  No  one  ever  fires  at  a  road 
agent.  They  just  shout,  *  Don't  shoot,  colonel, 
and  I'll  come  down/  I'm  going  to  bring  *em 
down  with  these  shears." 

Crosby  caught  Curtis  by  the  arm,  laughing 
eagerly.  "  Come  to  the  stables,  quick,"  he  cried. 
<c  We'll  get  twenty  troopers  after  him  before  he 
can  go  a  half  mile."  He  turned  on  Ranson  with 
a  triumphant  chuckle.  "  You'll  not  be  dismissed 
this  regiment,  if  I  can  help  it,"  he  cried. 

Ranson  gave  an  ugly  laugh,  like  the  snarl  of  a 
puppy  over  his  bone.  "If  you  try  to  follow  me, 
or  interfere  with  me,  Lieutenant  Crosby,"  he  said> 
"  I'll  shoot  you  and  your  troopers  !  " 

cc  With  a  pair  of  shears  ?  "  jeered  Crosby. 

Cf  No,  with  the  gun  I've  got  in  my  pocket. 
Now  you  listen  to  me.  I'm  not  going  to  use  that 
gun  on  any  stage  filled  with  women,  driven  by  a 
man  seventy  years  old,  but — and  I  mean  it — if 

27 


Ranson's  Folly 

you  try  to  stop  me,  I'll  use  it  on  you.  Fm  go- 
ing to  show  you  how  anyone  can  bluff  a  stage 
full  with  a  pair  of  tin  shears  and  a  red  mask  for  a 
kicker.  And  I'll  shoot  the  man  that  tries  to  stop 


me." 


Ranson  sprang  to  his  horse's  side,  and  stuck 
his  toe  into  the  empty  stirrup-strap ;  there  was  a 
scattering  of  pebbles,  a  scurry  of  hoofs,  and  the 
horse  and  rider  became  a  gray  blot  in  the  moon- 
light. 

The  two  lieutenants  stood  irresolute.  Under 
his  breath  Crosby  was  swearing  fiercely.  Curtis 
stood  staring  out  of  the  open  door. 

"Will  he  do  it?"  he  asked. 

"  Of  course  he'll  do  it." 

Curtis  crossed  the  room  and  dropped  into  a 
chair.  "  And  what — what  had  we  better  do  ?  " 
he  asked.  For  some  time  the  other  made  no 
answer.  His  brows  were  knit,  and  he  tramped 
the  room,  scowling  at  the  floor.  Then  with  an 
exclamation  of  alarm  he  stepped  lightly  to  the 
door  of  the  exchange  and  threw  back  the  curtain. 
In  the  other  room,  Cahill  stood  at  its  furthest 
corner,  scooping  sugar  from  a  hogshead. 

Crosby's  scowl  relaxed,  and,  reseating  himself 
at  the  table,  he  rolled  a  cigarette.  "  Now,  if  he 
pulls  it  off,"  he  whispered,  "and  gets  back  to 
quarters,  then — it's  a  case  of  all's  well.  But,  if 

28 


Ranson's   Folly 

he's  shot,  or  caught,  and  it  all  comes  out,  then  it's 
up  to  us  to  prove  he  meant  it  as  a  practical  joke." 

"  It  isn't  our  duty  to  report  it  now,  is  it  ?  * 
asked  Curtis,  nervously. 

<(  Certainly  not !  If  he  chooses  to  make  an  ass 
of  himself,  that's  none  of  our  business.  Unless 
he's  found  out,  we  have  heard  nothing  and  seen 
nothing.  If  he's  caught,  then  we've  got  to  stick 
by  him,  and  testify  that  he  did  it  on  a  bet.  He'll 
probably  win  out  all  right.  There  is  nobody  ex- 
pected on  the  stage  but  that  Miss  Post  and  her 
aunt.  And  the  driver's  an  old  hand.  He  knows 
better  than  to  fight." 

cc  There  may  be  some  cowboys  coming  up." 

"  That's  Ranson's  lookout.  As  Cahill  says, 
the  Red  Rider  takes  his  chances." 

"  I  wish  there  was  something  we  could  do  now," 
Curtis  protested,  petulantly.  "  I  suppose  we've 
just  got  to  sit  still  and  wait  for  him  ?  " 

"  That's  all,"  answered  Crosby,  and  then  leaped 
to  his  feet.  "  What's  that  ?  "  he  asked.  Out  on 
the  parade  ground,  a  bugle-call  broke  suddenly 
on  the  soft  spring  air.  It  rang  like  an  alarm.  The 
noise  of  a  man  running  swiftly  sounded  on  the  path, 
and  before  the  officers  reached  the  doorway  Ser- 
geant Clancey  entered  it,  and  halted  at  attention. 

"  The  colonel's  orders,"  panted  the  sergeant, 
cc  and  the  lieutenant's  are  to  take  twenty  men  from 

29 


Ranson's  Folly 

G  and  H  Troops,  and  ride  to  Kiowa  to  escort  the 
paymaster." 

"  The  paymaster  !  "  Crosby  cried.  cc  He's  not 
coming  till  Thursday." 

"  He's  just  telegraphed  from  Kiowa  City,  lieu- 
tenant. He's  ahead  of  his  schedule.  He  wants 
an  escort  for  the  money.  He  left  Kiowa  a  few 
minutes  ago  in  the  up  stage." 

The  two  lieutenants  sprang  forward,  and  shout- 
ed in  chorus :  "The  stage?  He  is  in  the  stage!" 

Sergeant  Clancey  stared  dubiously  from  one 
officer  to  the  other.  He  misunderstood  their 
alarm,  and  with  the  privilege  of  long  service  at- 
tempted to  allay  it.  "  The  lieutenant  knows 
nothing  can  happen  to  the  stage  till  it  reaches 
the  buttes,"  he  said.  "  There  has  never  been  a 
hold-up  in  the  open,  and  the  escort  can  reach  the 
buttes  long  before  the  stage  gets  here."  He 
coughed  consciously.  "  Colonel's  orders  are  to 
gallop,  lieutenant." 

As  the  two  officers  rode  knee  to  knee  through 
the  night,  the  pay  escort  pounding  the  trail  behind 
them,  Crosby  leaned  from  his  saddle.  "  He  has 
only  ten  minutes'  start  of  us,"  he  whispered. 
cc  We  are  certain  to  overtake  him.  We  can't  help 
but  do  it.  We  must  do  it.  We  must !  If  we 
don't,  ^nd  he  tries  to  stop  Colonel  Patten  and  the 
pay-rollj  he'll  die.  Two  women  and  a  deaf  driver, 

30 


Ranson's  Folly 

that — that's  a  joke.  But  an  Indian  fighter  like 
old  Patten,  and  Uncle  Sam's  money,  that  means 
a  finish  fight — and  his  death  and  disgrace."  He 
turned  savagely  in  his  saddle.  "  Close  up  there  !  " 
he  commanded.  "  Stop  that  talking.  You  keep 
your  breath  till  I  want  it — and  ride  hard." 

After  the  officers  had  galloped  away  from  the 
messroom,  and  Sergeant  Clancey  had  hurried  after 
them  to  the  stables,  the  post-trader  entered  it  from 
the  exchange  and  barred  the  door,  which  they  in 
their  haste  had  left  open.  As  he  did  this,  the 
close  observer,  had  one  been  present,  might  have 
noted  that  though  his  movements  were  now  alert 
and  eager,  they  no  longer  were  betrayed  by  any 
sound,  and  that  his  spurs  had  ceased  to  jangle. 
Yet  that  he  purposed  to  ride  abroad  was  evident 
from  the  fact  that  from  a  far  corner  he  dragged 
out  a  heavy  saddle.  He  flung  this  upon  the 
counter,  and  swiftly  stripped  it  of  its  stirrups. 
These,  with  more  than  necessary  care,  he  hid 
away  upon  the  highest  shelf  of  the  shop,  while 
from  the  lower  shelves  he  snatched  a  rubber 
poncho  and  a  red  kerchief.  For  a  moment,  as 
he  unbarred  the  door,  the  post-trader  paused  and 
cast  a  quick  glance  before  and  behind  him,  and 
then  the  door  closed  and  there  was  silence.  A 
minute  later  it  was  broken  by  the  hoofs  of  a  horse 
galloping  swiftly  along  the  trail  to  Kiowa  City. 

31 


PART  II 

THAT  winter  Miss  Post  had  been  going  out  a 
great  deal  more  than  was  good  for  her,  and  when 
the  spring  came  she  broke  down.  The  family 
doctor  recommended  Aiken,  but  an  aunt  of  Miss 
Post's,  Mrs.  Truesdall,  had  been  at  Farmington 
with  Mrs.  "  Colonel  "  Holland,  and  urged  visiting 
her  instead.  The  doctor  agreed  that  the  climatic 
conditions  existing  at  Fort  Crockett  were  quite  as 
health-giving  as  those  at  Aiken,  and  of  the  two 
the  invalid  decided  that  the  regimental  post  would 
be  more  of  a  novelty. 

So  she  and  her  aunt  and  the  maid  changed  cars 
twice  after  leaving  St.  Louis  and  then  staged  it 
to  Kiowa  City,  where,  while  waiting  for  "  Pop  " 
Henderson's  coach  to  Fort  Crockett,  they  dined 
with  him  on  bacon,  fried  bread,  and  alkali  water 
tinged  with  coffee. 

It  was  at  Kiowa  City,  a  city  of  four  hundred 
houses  on  blue-print  paper  and  six  on  earth,  that 
Miss  Post  first  felt  certain  that  she  was  going  to 
enjoy  her  visit.  It  was  there  she  first  saw,  at  large 
and  on  his  native  heath,  a  blanket  Indian.  He 

32 


Ranson's   Folly 

was  a  tall,  beautiful  youth,  with  yellow  ochre  on 
his  thin,  brown  arms  and  blue  ochre  on  his  cheek- 
bones, who  sat  on  "  Pop's "  steps,  gazing  im- 
passively at  the  stars.  Miss  Post  came  out  with 
her  maid  and  fell  over  him.  The  maid  screamed. 
Miss  Post  said :  "  I  beg  your  pardon  "  ;  and  the 
brave  expressed  his  contempt  by  gutteral  mutter- 
ings  and  by  moving  haughtily  away.  Miss  Post 
was  then  glad  that  she  had  not  gone  to  Aiken. 
For  the  twelve-mile  drive  through  the  moonlit 
buttes  to  Fort  Crockett  there  was,  besides  the 
women,  one  other  passenger.  He  was  a  travelling 
salesman  of  the  Hancock  Uniform  Company, 
and  was  visiting  Fort  Crockett  to  measure  the 
officers  for  their  summer  tunics.  At  dinner  he 
passed  Miss  Post  the  condensed  milk-can,  and  in 
other  ways  made  himself  agreeable.  He  informed 
her  aunt  that  he  was  in  the  Military  Equipment 
Department  of  the  Army,  but,  much  to  that 
young  woman's  distress,  addressed  most  of  his 
remarks  to  the  maid,  who,  to  his  taste,  was  the 
most  attractive  of  the  three. 

"  I   take  it,"  he  said    genially   to    Miss    Post, 
"  that  you  and  the  young  lady  are  sisters." 

"  No,"  said  Miss  Post,  "  we  are  not  related." 

It  was  eight  o'clock,  and  the  moon  was  full  in 

the   heavens  when    "  Pop "    Henderson   hoisted 

them    into   the  stage    and   burdened    his   driver, 

33 


Ranson's   Folly 

Hunk  Smith,  with  words  of  advice  which  were 
intended  solely  for  the  ears  of  the  passengers. 

"  You  want  to  be  careful  of  that  near  wheeler, 
Hunk,"  he  said, cc  or  he'll  upset  you  into  a  gully. 
An*  in  crossing  the  second  ford,  bear  to  the  right ; 
the  water's  running  high,  and  it  may  carry  youse 
all  down  stream.  I  don't  want  that  these  ladies 
should  be  drowned  in  any  stage  of  mine.  An* 
if  the  Red  Rider  jumps  you  don't  put  up  no 
bluff,  but  sit  still.  The  paymaster's  due  in  a 
night  or  two,  an'  I've  no  doubt  at  all  but  that  the 
Rider's  laying  for  him.  But  if  you  tell  him  that 
there's  no  one  inside  but  womenfolk  and  a  tailor, 
mebbe  he  won't  hurt  youse.  Now,  ladies,"  he 
added,  putting  his  head  under  the  leather  flap,  as 
though  unconscious  that  all  he  had  said  had 
already  reached  them,  cc  without  wishing  to  make 
you  uneasy,  I  would  advise  your  having  your  cash 
and  jewelry  ready  in  your  hands.  With  road- 
agents  it's  mostly  wisest  to  do  what  they  say,  an* 
to  do  it  quick.  Ef  you  give  'em  all  you've  got, 
they  sometimes  go  away  without  spilling  blood, 
though,  such  being  their  habits,  naturally  dis- 
appointed." He  turned  his  face  toward  the 
shrinking  figure  of  the  military  tailor.  "You, 
being  an  army  man,"  he  said,  "will  of  course 
want  to  protect  the  ladies,  but  you  mustn't  do  it. 
You  must  keep  cool.  Ef  you  pull  your  gun,  like 

34 


Ranson's  Folly 

as  no*  you'll  all  get  killed.  But  I'm  hoping  for  the 
best.  Good-night  all,  an'  a  pleasant  journey." 

The  stage  moved  off  with  many  creaks  and 
many  cracks  of  the  whip,  which  in  part  smothered 
Hunk  Smith's  laughter.  But  after  the  first  mile, 
he,  being  a  man  with  feelings  and  a  family,  pulled 
the  mules  to  a  halt. 

The  voice  of  the  drummer  could  instantly  be 
heard  calling  loudly  from  the  darkness  of  the 
stage  :  cc  Don't  open  those  flaps.  If  they  see  us, 
they'll  fire !  " 

"  I  wanted  you  folks  to  know,"  said  Hunk 
Smith,  leaning  from  the  box-seat,  cc  that  that  talk 
of  Pop's  was  all  foolishness.  You're  as  safe  on 
this  trail  as  in  a  Pullman  palace-car.  That  was 
just  his  way.  Pop  will  have  his  joke.  You  just 
go  to  sleep  now,  if  you  can,  and  trust  to  me.  I'll 
get  you  there  by  eleven  o'clock  or  break  a  trace. 
Breakin'  a  trace  is  all  the  danger  there  is,  anyway," 
he  added,  cheerfully,  "  so  don't  fret." 

Miss  Post  could  not  resist  saying  to  Mrs. 
Truesdall :  "  I  told  you  he  was  joking." 

The  stage  had  proceeded  for  two  hours.  Some- 
times it  dropped  with  locked  wheels  down  sheer 
walls  of  clay,  again  it  was  dragged,  careening 
drunkenly,  out  of  fathomless  pits.  It  pitched  and 
tossed,  slid  and  galloped,  danced  grotesquely  from 
one  wheel  to  another,  from  one  stone  to  another, 

35 


Ranson's  Folly 

recoiled  out  of  ruts,  butted  against  rocks,  and 
swept  down  and  out  of  swollen  streams  that 
gurgled  between  the  spokes. 

"  If  ever  I  leave  Fort  Crockett,"  gasped  Mrs. 
Truesdall  between  jolts,  "  I  shall  either  wait  until 
they  build  a  railroad  or  walk." 

They  had  all  but  left  the  hills,  and  were  ap- 
proaching the  level  prairie.  That  they  might 
see  the  better  the  flaps  had  been  rolled  up,  and 
the  soft  dry  air  came  freely  through  the  open 
sides.  The  mules  were  straining  over  the  last  hill. 
On  either  side  only  a  few  of  the  buttes  were  still 
visible.  They  stood  out  in  the  moonlight  as 
cleanly  cut  as  the  bows  of  great  battleships.  The 
trail  at  last  was  level.  Mr?  TruesdalFs  eyes 
closed.  Her  head  fell  forward.  But  Miss  Post, 
weary  as  she  was  in  body,  could  not  sleep.  To 
her  the  night-ride  was  full  of  strange  and  wonder- 
ful mysteries.  Gratefully  she  drank  in  the  dry 
scent  of  the  prairie-grass,  and,  holding  by  the 
frame  of  the  window,  leaned  far  out  over  the 
wheel.  As  she  did  so,  a  man  sprang  into  the  trail 
from  behind  a  wall  of  rock,  and  shouted  hoarsely. 
He  was  covered  to  his  knees  with  a  black  mantle. 
His  face  was  hidden  by  a  blood-red  mask. 

"  Throw  up  your  hands !  "  he  commanded. 
There  was  a  sharp  creaking  as  the  brakes  locked^ 
And  from  the  driver's  seat  an  amazed  oath.  The 

36 


Ranson's  Folly 

stage  stopped  with  a  violent  jerk,  and  Mrs.  Trues* 
dall  pitched  gently  forward  toward  her  niece. 

"  I  really  believe  I  was  asleep,  Helen,"  she 
murmured.  "  What  are  we  waiting  for?  " 

"  I  think  we  are  held  up,"  said  Miss  Post. 

The  stage  had  halted  beyond  the  wall  of  rock, 
and  Miss  Post  looked  behind  it,  but  no  other 
men  were  visible,  only  a  horse  with  his  bridle 
drawn  around  a  stone.  The  man  in  the  mask  ad- 
vanced upon  the  stage,  holding  a  weapon  at  arm's- 
length.  In  the  moonlight  it  flashed  and  glittered 
evilly.  The  man  was  but  a  few  feet  from  Miss 
Post,  and  the  light  fell  full  upon  her.  Of  him 
she  could  see  only  two  black  eyes  that  flashed  as 
evilly  as  his  weapon.  For  a  period  of  suspense, 
which  seemed  cruelly  prolonged,  the  man  stood 
motionless,  then  he  lowered  his  weapon.  When 
he  opened  his  lips  the  mask  stuck  to  them,  and 
his  words  came  from  behind  it,  broken  and  smoth- 
ered. "  Sorry  to  trouble  you,  miss,"  the  mask 
said,  "  but  I  want  that  man  beside  you  to  get 


Miss  Post  turned  to  the  travelling  salesman. 
"  He  wants  you  to  get  out,"  she  said. 

"  Wants  me  !  "  exclaimed  the  drummer.  cc  Fm 
not  armed,  you  know."  In  a  louder  voice  he 
protested,  faintly :  cc  I  say,  I'm  not  armed." 

cc  Come  out f "  demanded  the  mask. 
37 


Ransorfs  Folly 

The  drummer  precipitated  himself  violently  ovef 
the  knees  of  the  ladies  into  the  road  below,  and 
held  his  hands  high  above  him.  <c  I'm  not  armed/9 
he  said;  "indeed  I'm  not." 

"  Stand  over  there,  with  your  back  to  that  rock," 
the  mask  ordered.  For  a  moment  the  road  agent 
regarded  him  darkly,  pointing  his  weapon  medita- 
tively at  different  parts  of  the  salesman's  person. 
He  suggested  a  butcher  designating  certain  choice 
cuts.  The  drummer's  muscles  jerked  under  the 
torture  as  though  his  anatomy  were  being  prodded 
with  an  awl. 

"  I  want  your  watch,"  said  the  mask. 

The  drummer  reached  eagerly  for  his  waistcoat. 

"  Hold  up  your  hands  !  "  roared  the  road  agent. 
"  By  the  eternal,  if  you  play  any  rough-house 
tricks  on  me  I'll — "  He  flourished  his  weapon 
until  it  flashed  luminously. 

An  exclamation  from  Hunk  Smith,  opportunely 
uttered,  saved  the  drummer  from  what  was  ap- 
parently instant  annihilation.  cc  Say,  Rider,"  cried 
the  driver,  cc  I  can't  hold  my  arms  up  no  longer. 
I'm  going  to  put  'em  down.  But  you  leave  me 
alone,  an'  I'll  leave  you  alone.  Is  that  a  bargain? " 

The  shrouded  figure  whirled  his  weapon  upon 
the  speaker.  "  Have  I  ever  stopped  you  before, 
Hunk  ?  "  he  demanded. 

Hunk,  at  this  recognition  of  himself  as  a  public 
38 


Ranson's  Folly 

character,  softened  instantly.  fc  I  dunno  whether 
'twas  you  or  one  of  your  gang,  but " 

"Well,  you've  still  got  your  health,  haven't 
you?" 

"Yes." 

"  Then  keep  quiet,"  snarled  the  mask. 

In  retort  Hunk  Smith  muttered  audible  threat- 
enings,  but  sank  obediently  into  an  inert  heap. 
Only  his  eyes,  under  cover  of  his  sombrero, 
roamed  restlessly.  They  noted  the  McClellan 
saddle  on  the  Red  Rider's  horse,  the  white  patch 
on  its  near  fore-foot,  the  empty  stirrup-straps,  and 
at  a  great  distance,  so  great  that  the  eyes  only  of 
a  plainsman  could  have  detected  it,  a  cloud  of 
dust,  or  smoke,  or  mist,  that  rode  above  the  trail 
and  seemed  to  be  moving  swiftly  down  upon  them. 

At  the  sight,  Hunk  shifted  the  tobacco  in  his 
cheek  and  nervously  crossed  his  knees,  while  a 
grin  of  ineffable  cunning  passed  across  his  face. 

With  his  sombrero  in  his  hand,  the  Red  Ride* 
stepped  to  the  wheel  of  the  stage.  As  he  did  so, 
Miss  Post  observed  that  above  the  line  of  his 
kerchief  his  hair  was  evenly  and  carefully  parted 
in  the  middle. 

"I'm  afraid,  ladies,"  said  the  road  agent,  "that 
I  have  delayed  you  unnecessarily.  It  seems  that 
I  have  called  up  the  wrong  number."  He 
emitted  a  reassuring  chuckle,  and,  fanning  himself 

39 


Ranson's   Folly 

with  his  sombrero,  continued  speaking  in  a  tone 
of  polite  ircny  :  "  The  Wells,  Fargo  messenger  is 
the  party  I  am  laying  for.  He's  coming  over 
this  trail  with  a  package  of  diamonds.  That's 
what  I'm  after.  At  first  I  thought  c  Fighting 
Bob  '  over  there  by  the  rock  might  have  it  on 
him ;  but  he  doesn't  act  like  any  Wells,  Fargo 
Express  agent  I  have  ever  tackled  before,  and  I 
guess  the  laugh's  on  me.  I  seem  to  have  been 
weeping  over  the  wrong  grave."  He  replaced 
his  sombrero  on  his  head  at  a  rakish  angle,  and 
waved  his  hand.  "  Ladies,  you  are  at  liberty  to 
proceed." 

But  instantly  he  stepped  forward  again,  and 
brought  his  face  so  close  to  the  window  that  they 
could  see  the  whites  of  his  eyes.  cc  Before  we 
part,"  he  murmured,  persuasively,  "  you  wouldn't 
mind  leaving  me  something  as  a  souvenir,  would 
you  ?  "  He  turned  the  skull-like  openings  of  the 
mask  full  upon  Miss  Post. 

Mrs.  Truesdall  exclaimed,  hysterically: cc  Why, 
certainly  not !  "  she  cried.  "  Here's  everything 
I  have,  except  what's  sewn  inside  my  waist,  where 
I  can't  possibly  get  at  it.  I  assure  you  I  cannot. 
The  proprietor  of  that  hotel  told  us  we'd  probably 
-—meet  you,  and  so  I  have  everything  ready." 
She  thrust  her  two  hands  through  the  window. 
They  held  a  roll  of  bills,  a  watch,  and  her  rings 

40 


Ranson's  Folly 

Miss  Post  laughed  in  an  ecstasy  of  merriment 
"  Oh,  no,  aunt/'  she  protested,  "  don't.  No,  not 
at  all.  The  gentleman  only  wants  a  keepsake. 
Something  to  remember  us  by.  Isn't  that  it  ?  " 
she  asked.  She  regarded  the  blood-red  mask 
steadily  with  a  brilliant  smile. 

The  road  agent  did  not  at  once  answer.  At 
her  words  he  had  started  back  with  such  sharp 
suspicion  that  one  might  have  thought  he  med- 
itated instant  flight.  Through  the  holes  in  his 
mask  he  now  glared  searchingly  at  Miss  Post,  but 
£till  in  silence. 

"  I  think  this  will  satisfy  him,"  said  Miss  Post. 

Out  of  the  collection  in  her  aunt's  hands  she 
picked  a  silver  coin  and  held  it  forward.  "  Some- 
thing lo  keep  as  a  pocket-piece,"  she  said,  mock- 
ingly, cc  to  remind  you  of  your  kindness  to  three 
lone  females  in  distress." 

Still  silent,  the  road  agent  reached  for  the 
money,  and  then  growled  at  her  in  a  tone  which 
had  suddenly  become  gruff  and  overbearing.  It 
suggested  to  Miss  Post  the  voice  of  the  head  of 
the  family  playing  Santa  Claus  for  the  children. 
*cAnd  now  you,  miss,"  he  demanded. 

Miss  Post  took  another  coin  from  the  heap, 

studied  its  inscription,  and  passed  it  through  the 

window.     "This    one    is    from    me,"    she    said. 

<  Mine  is  dated    1901.     The   moonlight,"  she 

41 


Ranson's  Folly 

added,  leaning  far  forward  and  smiling  out  at  him£ 
cc  makes  it  quite  easy  to  see  the  date ;  as  easy,'s 
she  went  on,  picking  her  words,  "as  it  is  to  see 
your  peculiar  revolver  and  the  coat-of-arms  on 
your  ring."  She  drew  her  head  back.  "  Good- 
night," she  cooed,  sweetly. 

The  Red  Rider  jumped  from  the  door.  An 
exclamation  which  might  have  been  a  laugh  or  an 
oath  was  smothered  by  his  mask.  He  turned 
swiftly  upon  the  salesman.  "  Get  back  into  the 
coach,"  he  commanded.  "And  you,  Hunk,"  he 
called,  "  if  you  send  a  posse  after  me,  next  night 
I  ketch  you  out  here  alone  you'll  lose  the  top  of 
your  head." 

The  salesman  scrambled  into  the  stage  through 
the  door  opposite  the  one  at  which  the  Red 
Rider  was  standing,  and  the  road  agent  again 
raised  his  sombrero  with  a  sweeping  gesture 
worthy  of  D'Artagnan.  "  Good-night,  ladies," 
he  said. 

"  Good-night,  sir,"  Mrs.  Truesdall  answered, 
grimly,  but  exuding  a  relieved  sigh.  Then,  her 
indignation  giving  her  courage,  she  leaned  from 
the  window  and  hurled  a  Parthian  arrow.  "  I 
must  say,"  she  protested,  "  I  think  you  might  be 
in  a  better  business." 

The  road  agent  waved  his  hand  to  the  young 
lady.  "  Good-by,"  he  said. 

42 


Ranson's  Folly 

<cAu  revoir,"  said  Miss  Post,  pleasantly, 

€€  Good-by,  miss/'  stammered  the  road  agent, 

<c  I  said  cAu  revoir,'  "  repeated  Miss  Post. 

The  road  agent,  apparently  routed  by  these 
simple  words,  fled  muttering  toward  his  horse. 

Hunk  Smith  was  having  trouble  with  his  brake. 
He  kicked  at  it  and,  stooping,  pulled  at  it,  but 
the  wheels  did  not  move. 

Mrs.  Truesdall  fell  into  a  fresh  panic.  "  What 
is  it  now  ?  "  she  called,  miserably. 

Before  he  answered,  Hunk  Smith  threw  a  quick 
glance  toward  the  column  of  moving  dust.  He 
was  apparently  reassured. 

"The  brake,"  he  grunted.  "The  darned 
thing's  stuck ! " 

The  road  agent  was  tugging  at  the  stone  be- 
neath which  he  had  slipped  his  bridle.  cc  Can  I 
help  ?  "  he  asked,  politely.  But  before  he  reached 
the  stage,  he  suddenly  stopped  with  an  imperative 
sweep  of  his  arm  for  silence.  He  stood  motion- 
less, his  body  bent  to  the  ground,  leaning  forward 
and  staring  down  the  trail.  Then  he  sprang  up- 
right. "  You  old  fox  !  "  he  roared,  "  you're  gain- 
ing time,  are  you  ?  " 

With  a  laugh  he  tore  free  his  bridle  and  threw 
himself  across  his  horse.  His  legs  locked  under 
it,  his  hands  clasped  its  mane,  and  with  a  cowboy 
yell  he  dashed  past  the  stage  in  the  direction  of 

43 


Ranson's  Folly 

Kiowa  City,  his  voice  floating  back  in  shouts  of 
jeering  laughter.  From  behind  him  he  heard 
Hunk  Smith's  voice  answering  his  own  in  a  cry  for 
lf  Help  !  "  and  from  a  rapidly  decreasing  distance 
the  throb  of  many  hoofs.  For  an  instant  he  drew 
upon  his  rein,  and  then,  with  a  defiant  chuckle, 
drove  his  spurs  deep  into  his  horse's  side. 

Mrs.  Truesdall  also  heard  the  pounding  of 
many  hoofs,  as  well  as  Hunk  Smith's  howls 
for  help,  and  feared  a  fresh  attack.  "  Oh,  what  is 
it  ?  "  she  begged 

"  Soldiers  from  the  fort,"  Hunk  called,  excited- 
ly, and  again  raised  his  voice  in  a  long,  dismal 
howl. 

"  Sounds  cheery,  doesn't  it  ? "  said  the  sales- 
man ;  "  referring  to  the  soldiers,"  he  explained. 
It  was  his  first  coherent  remark  since  the  Red 
Rider  had  appeared  and  disappeared. 

"  Oh,  I  hope  they  won't — "  began  Miss  Post, 
anxiously. 

The  hoof-beats  changed  to  thunder,  and  with 
the  pounding  on  the  dry  trail  came  the  jangle  of 
stirrups  and  sling-belts.  Then  a  voice,  and  the 
coach  was  surrounded  by  dust-covered  troopers 
and  horses  breathing  heavily.  Lieutenant  Crosby 
pulled  up  beside  the  window  of  the  stage.  "  Are 
you  there,  Colonel  Patten?"  he  panted.  He 
peered  forward  into  the  stage,  but  no  one  an- 

44 


Ranson's   Folly 


swered  him.  "  Is  the  paymaster  in  here  ? "  he 
demanded. 

The  voice  of  Lieutenant  Curtis  shouted  in 
turn  at  Hunk  Smith.  "  Is  the  paymaster  in 
there,  driver  ? " 

"Paymaster?  No!"  Hunk  roared.  "A  drum- 
mer and  three  ladies.  We've  been  held  up.  The 
Red  Rider — "  He  rose  and  waved  his  whip 
over  the  top  of  the  coach.  "  He  went  that  way. 
You  can  ketch  him  easy." 

Sergeant  Clancey  and  half  a  dozen  troopers 
jerked  at  their  bridles.  But  Crosby,  at  the  win- 
do^,  shouted  "  Halt !  " 

"  What's  your  name  ? "  he  demanded  of  the 
salesman. 

"  Myers,"  stammered  the  drummer.  "  I'm 
from  the  Hancock  Uniform " 

Curtis  had  spurred  his  horse  beside  that  of  his 
brother  officer.  "  Is  Colonel  Patten  at  Kiowa  ?  " 
he  interrupted. 

"  I  can't  give  you  any  information  as  to  that," 
replied  Mr.  Myers,  importantly;  "  but  these  ladies 
and  I  have  just  been  held  up  by  the  Red  Rider. 
"If  you'll  hurry  you'll " 

The  two  officers  pulled  back  their  horses  from 
the  stage  and,  leaning  from  their  saddles,  con- 
sulted in  eager  whispers.  Their  men  fidgeted  with 
their  reins,  and  stared  with  amazed  eyes  at  their 

45 


Ranson's  Folly- 
officers.     Lieutenant  Crosby  was  openly  smiling, 
"  He's  got  away  with  it,"  he  whispered.     "  Pat- 
ten missed  the  stage,  thank  God,  and  he's  met 
nothing  worse  than  these  women." 

"We  must  make  a  bluff  at  following  him/' 
whispered  Curtis. 

cc  Certainly  not !  Our  orders  are  to  report  to 
Colonel  Patten,  and  act  as  his  escort." 

"  But  he's  not  at  Kiowa ;  that  fellow  says  so." 

cc  He  telegraphed  the  Colonel  from  Kiowa,"  re- 
turned Crosby.  "  How  could  he  do  that  if  he 
wasn't  there  ?  "  He  turned  upon  Hunk  Smith. 
cc  When  did  you  leave  Henderson's  ? "  he  de- 
manded. 

<c  Seven  o'clock,"  answered  Hunk  Smith,  sulk- 
ily. "  Say,  if  you  young  fellows  want  to  catch — '" 

"  And  Patten  telegraphed  at  eight,"  cried  Cros- 
by. "  That's  it.  He  reached  Kiowa  after  the 
stage  had  gone.  Sergeant  Clancey  !  "  he  called. 

The  Sergeant  pushed  out  from  the  mass  of 
wondering  troopers. 

"  When  did  the  paymaster  say  he  was  leaving 
Kiowa  ? " 

"  Leaving  at  once,  the  telegram  said,"  answered 
Clancey. 

" c  Meet  me  with  escort  before  I  reach  the 
buttes.'  That's  the  message  I  was  told  to  give 
the  lieutenant." 

46 


Ranson's   Folly 

Hunk  Smith  leaned  from  the  box-seat.  "  Meb- 
be  Pop's  driving  him  over  himself  in  the  buck- 
board,"  he  volunteered.  "  Pop  often  takes  'em 
over  that  way  if  they  miss  the  stage/' 

"  That's  how  it  is,  of  course,"  cried  Crosby. 
"  He's  on  his  way  now  in  the  buckboard." 

Hunk  Smith  surveyed  the  troopers  dismally 
and  shook  his  head.  "  If  he  runs  up  against  the 
Red  Rider,  it's  'good-by'  your  pay,  boys,"  he 
cried. 

"  Fall  in  there  !  "  shouted  Crosby.  "  Corpo- 
ral Tynan,  fall  out  with  two  men  and  escort  these 
ladies  to  the  fort."  He  touched  his  hat  to  Miss 
Post,  and,  with  Curtis  at  his  side,  sprang  into  the 
trail.  "  Gallop  !  March  !  "  he  commanded. 

"  Do  you  think  he'll  tackle  the  buckboard, 
too  ?  "  whispered  Curtis. 

Crosby  laughed  joyously  and  drew  a  long 
breath  of  relief. 

"  No,  he's  all  right  now,"  he  answered.  "  Don't 
you  see,  he  doesn't  know  about  Patten  or  the 
buckboard.  He's  probably  well  on  his  way  to 
the  post  now.  I  delayed  the  game  at  the  stage 
there  on  purpose  to  give  him  a  good  start.  He's 
safe  by  now." 

"  It  was  a  close  call,"  laughed  the  other.  "  He's 
got  to  give  us  a  dinner  for  helping  him  out  of 
this," 

47 


Ranson's   Folly 

"We'd  have  caught  him  red-handed/'  said  Cros- 
by, cc  if  we'd  been  five  minutes  sooner.  Lord  !  " 
he  gasped.  "It  makes  me  cold  to  think  of  it. 
The  men  would  have  shot  him  off  his  horse.  But 
what  a  story  for  those  women  !  I  hope  I'll  be 
there  when  they  tell  it.  If  Ranson  can  keep  his 
face  straight,  he's  a  wonder."  For  some  mo- 
ments they  raced  silently  neck  by  neck,  and  then 
Curtis  again  leaned  from  his  saddle.  cc  I  hope 
he  has  turned  back  to  the  post,"  he  said.  "  Look 
at  the  men  how  they're  keeping  watch  for  him. 
They're  scouts,  all  of  them." 

"  What  if  they  are  ?  "  returned  Crosby,  easily. 
*c  Ranson's  in  uniform — out  for  a  moonlight  can* 
ter.  You  can  bet  a  million  dollars  he  didn't  wear 
his  red  mask  long  after  he  heard  us  coming." 

"  I  suppose  he'll  think  we've  followed  to  spoil 
his  fun.  You  know  you  said  we  would." 

cc  Yes,  he  was  going  to  shoot  us,"  laughed 
Crosby.  "  I  wonder  why  he  packs  a  gun.  It's 
a  silly  thing  to  do." 

The  officers  fell  apart  again,  and  there  was  si- 
lence over  the  prairie,  save  for  the  creaking  of 
leather  and  the  beat  of  the  hoofs.  And  then, 
faint  and  far  away,  there  came  the  quick  crack  of 
a  revolver,  another,  and  then  a  fusillade.  cc  My 
God  !  "  gasped  Crosby.  He  threw  himself  for- 
ward, digging  his  spurs  into  his  horse,  and  rode 

48 


Ranson's   Folly 

as  though  he  were  trying  to  escape  from  his  own 
men. 

No  one  issued  an  order,  no  one  looked  a  ques- 
tion ;  each,  officer  and  enlisted  man,  bowed  his 
head  and  raced  to  be  the  first. 

The  trail  was  barricaded  by  two  struggling 
horses  and  an  overturned  buckboard.  The  rigid 
figure  of  a  man  lay  flat  upon  his  back  staring  at 
the  moon,  another  white-haired  figure  staggered 
forward  from  a  rock.  "  Who  goes  there  ?  "  it 
demanded. 

"  United  States  troops-  Is  that  you,  Colonel 
Patten  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

Colonel  Patten's  right  arm  was  swinging  limply 
at  his  side.  With  his  left  hand  he  clasped  his 
right  shoulder.  The  blood,  black  in  the  moon- 
light, was  oozing  between  his  fingers. 

"  We  were  held  up,"  he  said.  cc  He  shot  the 
driver  and  the  horses.  I  fired  at  him,  but  he 
broke  my  arm.  He  shot  the  gun  out  of  my 
hand.  When  he  reached  for  the  satchel  I  tried 
to  beat  him  off  with  my  left  arm,  but  he  threw  me 
into  the  road.  He  went  that  way — toward  Kiowa." 

Sergeant  Clancey,  who  was  kneeling  by  the  fig- 
ure in  the  trail,  raised  his  hand  in  salute.  "  Pop 
Henderson,  lieutenant,"  he  said.  "  He's  shot 
through  the  heart  He's  dead," 

49 


Ranson's  Folly 


e<  He  took  the  money,  ten  thousand  dollars/ 
cried  Colonel  Patten.  "  He  wore  a  red  mask  and 
a  rubber  poncho.  And  I  saw  that  he  had  no  stir- 
rups in  his  stirrup-straps." 

Crosby  dodged,  as  though  someone  had  thrown 
a  knife,  and  then  raised  his  hand  stiffly  and 
heavily. 

"  Lieutenant  Curtis,  you  will  remain  here  with 
Colonel  Patten,"  he  ordered.  His  voice  was  with- 
out emotion.  It  fell  flat  and  dead.  "  Deploy  as 
skirmishers,"  he  commanded.  "  G  Troop  to  the 
right  of  the  trail,  H  Troop  to  the  left.  Stop  any- 
one you  see — anyone.  If  he  tries  to  escape,  cry 
*  Halt ! '  twice  and  then  fire — to  kill.  Forward  ! 
Gallop  !  March !  Toward  the  post." 

"  No  !  "  shouted  Colonel  Patten.  "  He  went 
toward  Kiowa." 

Crosby  replied  in  the  same  dead  voice :  cc  He 
doubled  after  he  left  you,  colonel.  He  has  gone 
to  the  post." 

Colonel  Patten  struggled  from  the  supporting 
arms  that  held  him  and  leaned  eagerly  forward. 
<c  You  know  him,  then  ?  "  he  demanded. 

"  Yes,"  cried  Crosby,  cc  God  help  him  !  Spread 
out  there,  you,  in  open  order — and  ride  like  hell!" 

Just  before  the  officers'  club  closed  for  the 
night  Lieutenant  Ranson  came  in  and,  seating 


Ranson's  Folly 

himself  at  the  piano,  picked  out <f  The  Queen  of 
the  Philippine  Islands  "  with  one  finger.  Majoi 
Stickney  and  others  who  were  playing  bridge  were 
considerably  annoyed.  Ranson  then  demanded 
that  everyone  present  should  drink  his  health  in 
champagne  for  the  reason  that  it  was  his  birthday 
and  that  he  was  glad  he  was  alive,  and  wished 
everyone  else  to  feel  the  same  way  about  it. 
"  Or,  for  any  other  reason  why,"  he  added, 
generously.  This  frontal  attack  upon  the  whist- 
players  upset  the  game  entirely,  and  Ranson,  en- 
throned upon  the  piano-stool,  addressed  the  room. 
He  held  up  a  buckskin  tobacco-bag  decorated 
with  beads. 

"  I  got  this  down  at  the  Indian  village  to- 
night," he  said.  <c  That  old  squaw,  Red  Wing, 
makes  'em  for  two  dollars.  Crosby  paid  five  dol- 
lars for  his  in  New  Mexico,  and  it  isn't  half  as 
good.  What  do  you  think  ?  I  got  lost  coming 
back,  and  went  all  the  way  round  by  the  buttes  be- 
fore I  found  the  trail,  and  I've  only  been  here  six 
months.  They  certainly  ought  to  make  me  chief 
of  scouts/' 

There  was  the  polite  laugh  which  is  granted  to 
any  remark  made  by  the  one  who  is  paying  for 
the  champagne. 

"  Oh,  that's  where  you  were,  was  it  ?  "  said  the 
post-adjutant,  genially.  "  The  colonel  sent  Clan- 
Si 


Ranson's  Folly 

cey  after  you  and  Crosby.  Clancey  reported  that 
he  couldn't  find  you.  So  we  sent  Curtis.  They 
went  to  act  as  escort  for  Colonel  Patten  and  the 
pay.  He's  coming  up  to-night  in  the  stage.'1 
Ranson  was  gazing  down  into  his  glass.  Before 
he  raised  his  head  he  picked  several  pieces  of  ice 
out  of  it  and  then  drained  it. 

"  The  paymaster,  hey  ?  "  he  said.  cc  He's  in 
the  stage  to-night,  is  he  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  the  adjutant;  and  then  as  the 
bugle  and  stamp  of  hoofs  sounded  from  the 
parade  outside,  "  and  that's  Kim  now,  I  guess," 
he  added. 

Ranson  refilled  his  glass  with  infinite  care,  and 
then,  in  spite  of  a  smile  that  twitched  at  the 
corners  of  his  mouth,  emptied  it  slowly. 

There  was  the  jingle  of  spurs  and  a  measured 
tramp  on  the  veranda  of  the  club-house,  and  for 
the  first  time  in  its  history  four  enlisted  men, 
carrying  ^heir  Krags,  invaded  its  portals.  They 
were  led  by  Lieutenant  Crosby;  his  face  was 
white  under  the  tan,  and  full  of  suffering.  The 
officers  in  the  room  received  the  intrusion  in 
amazed  silence.  Crosby  strode  among  them, 
looking  neither  to  the  left  nor  right,  and  touched 
Lieutenant  Ranson  upon  the  shoulder. 

*cThe  colonel's  orders,  Lieutenant  Ranson/9 
he  said.  "  You  are  under  arrest." 

52 


Ranson's  Folly 

Ranson  leaned  back  against  the  music-rack  and 
placed  his  glass  upon  the  keyboard.  One  leg 
was  crossed  over  the  other,  and  he  did  not  re- 
move it. 

"  Then  you  can't  take  a  joke,"  he  said  in  a  low 
tone.  cc  You  had  to  run  and  tell."  He  laughed 
and  raised  his  voice  so  that  all  in  the  club  might 
hear.  "What  am  I  arrested  for,  Crosby?"  he 
asked. 

The  lines  in  Crosby's  face  deepened,  and  only 
those  who  sat  near  could  hear  him.  "You  are 
under  arrest  for  attempting  to  kill  a  superior 
officer,  for  the  robbery  of  the  government  pay- 
train — and  for  murder." 

Ranson  jumped  to  his  feet.  "  My  God,  Cros- 
by ! "  he  cried. 

"Silence!  Don't  talk!"  ordered  Crosby. 
"  Come  along  with  me." 

The  four  troopers  fell  in  in  rear  of  Lieutenant 
Crosby  and  their  prisoner.  He  drew  a  quick, 
frightened  breath,  and  then,  throwing  back  his 
shoulders,  fell  into  step,  and  the  six  men  tramped 
from  the  club  and  out  into  the  night. 


PART    III 

THAT  night  at  the  post  there  was  little  sleep 
for  any  one.  The  feet  of  hurrying  orderlies  beat 
upon  the  parade-ground,  the  windows  of  the 
Officers'  Club  blazed  defiantly,  and  from  the 
darkened  quarters  of  the  enlisted  men  came  the 
sound  of  voices  snarling  in  violent  vituperation. 
At  midnight,  half  of  Ranson's  troop,  having  at- 
tacked the  rest  of  the  regiment  with  cavalry-boots, 
were  marched  under  arrest  to  the  guard-house. 
As  they  passed  Ranson's  hut,  where  he  still  paced 
the  veranda,  a  burning  cigarette  attesting  his 
wakefulness,  they  cheered  him  riotously.  At  two 
o'clock  it  was  announced  from  the  hospital  that 
both  patients  were  out  of  danger ;  for  it  had  de- 
veloped that,  in  his  hurried  diagnosis,  Sergeant 
Clancey  had  located  Henderson's  heart  six  inches 
from  where  it  should  have  been. 

When  one  of  the  men  who  guarded  Ranson 
reported  this  good  news  the  prisoner  said,  "  Still, 
I  hope  they'll  hang  whoever  did  it.  They 
shouldn't  hang  a  man  for  being  a  good  shot  and 
let  him  off  because  he's  a  bad  one." 

54 


Ranson's  Folly 

At  the  time  of  the  hold-up  Mary  Cahill  had 
been  a  half-mile  distant  from  the  post  at  the  camp 
of  the  Kiowas,  where  she  had  gone  in  answer  to 
the  cry  of  Lightfoot's  squaw.  When  she  returned 
she  found  Indian  Pete  in  charge  of  the  exchange. 
Her  father,  he  told  her,  had  ridden  to  the  Indian 
village  in  search  of  her.  As  he  spoke  the  post- 
trader  appeared.  cc  I'm  sorry  I  missed  you,"  his 
daughter  called  to  him. 

At  the  sound  Cahill  pulled  his  horse  sharply 
toward  the  corral.  "  I  had  a  horse-deal  on — with 
the  chief/'  he  answered  over  his  shoulder. 
"  When  I  got  to  Lightfoot's  tent  you  had  gone." 

After  he  had  dismounted,  and  was  coming 
toward  her,  she  noted  that  his  right  hand  was 
bound  in  a  handkerchief,  and  exclaimed  with  ap- 
prehension. 

"  It  is  nothing,"  Cahill  protested.  "  I  was 
foolin'  with  one  of  the  new  regulation  revolvers, 
with  my  hand  over  the  muzzle.  Ball  went 
through  the  palm." 

Miss  Cahill  gave  a  tremulous  cry  and  caught 
the  injured  hand  to  her  lips. 

Her  father  snatched  it  from  her  roughly. 

"  Let  go  !  "  he  growled.     "  It  serves  me  right." 

A  few  minutes  later  Mary  Cahill,  bearing 
liniment  for  her  father's  hand,  knocked  at 
his  bedroom  and  found  it  empty.  When  she 

55 


Ranson's  Folly 

peered  from  the  top  of  the  stairs  into  the  shop* 
windovy  below  she  saw  him  busily  engaged  with 
his  one  hand  buckling  the  stirrup-straps  of  his 
saddle. 

When  she  called,  he  sprang  upright  with  an 
oath.  He  had  faced  her  so  suddenly  that  it 
sounded  as  though  he  had  sworn,  not  in  surprise> 
but  at  her. 

"  You  startled  me,"  he  murmured.  His  eyes 
glanced  suspiciously  from  her  to  the  saddle. 
"These  stirrup-straps — they're  too  short,"  he 
announced.  cc  Pete  or  somebody's  been  using 
my  saddle." 

"  I  came  to  bring  you  this  c  first-aid  *  bandage 
for  your  hand,"  said  his  daughter. 

Cahill  gave  a  shrug  of  impatience. 

"  My  hand's  all  right,"  he  said ;  cc  you  go  to 
bed.  I've  got  to  begin  taking  account  of  stock." 

"  To-night  ? " 

"  There's  no  time  by  day.     Go  to  bed." 

For  nearly  an  hour  Miss  Cahill  lay  awake 
listening  to  her  father  moving  about  in  the  shop 
below.  Never  before  had  he  spoken  roughly  to 
her,  and  she,  knowing  how  much  the  thought 
that  he  had  done  so  would  distress  him,  was  her- 
self distressed. 

In  his  lonely  vigil  on  the  veranda,  Ranson 
looked  from  the  post  down  the  hill  to  where  the 

56 


Ranson's  Folly 

light  still  shone  from  Mary  Cahill's  window.  He 
wondered  if  she  had  heard  the  news,  and  if  it 
were  any  thought  of  him  that  kept  sleep  from  her. 

"  You  ass !  you  idiot !  "  he  muttered.  "  You've 
worried  and  troubled  her.  She  believes  one  of 
her  precious  army  is  a  thief  and  a  murderer." 
He  cursed  himself  picturesquely,  but  the  thought 
that  she  might  possibly  be  concerned  on  his  ac- 
count, did  not,  he  found,  distress  him  as  greatly 
as  it  should.  On  the  contrary,  as  he  watched 
the  light  his  heart  glowed  warmly.  And  long 
after  the  light  went  out  he  still  looked  toward  the 
home  of  the  post-trader,  his  brain  filled  with 
thoughts  of  his  return  to  his  former  life  outside 
the  army,  the  old  life  to  which  he  vowed  he  would 
not  return  alone. 

The  next  morning  Miss  Cahill  learned  the 
news  when  the  junior  officer  came  to  mess  and 
explained  why  Ranson  was  not  with  them.  Her 
only  comment  was  to  at  once  start  for  his  quarters 
with  his  breakfast  in  a  basket.  She  could  have 
sent  it  by  Pete,,  but,  she  argued,  when  one  of  her 
officers  was  in  trouble  that  was  not  the  time  to 
turn  him  over  to  the  mercies  of  a  servant.  No, 
she  assured  herself,  it  was  not  because  the  officer 
happened  to  be  Ranson.  She  would  have  done 
as  much,  or  as  little,  for  any  one  of  them.  When 
Curtis  and  Haines  were  ill  of  the  grippe,  had  she 

57 


Ranson's  Folly 

not  carried  them  many  good  things  of  her  own 
making  ? 

But  it  was  not  an  easy  sacrifice.  As  she  crossed 
the  parade-ground  she  recognized  that  over-night 
Ranson's  hut,  where  he  was  a  prisoner  in  his  own 
quarters,  had  become  to  the  post  the  storm-centre 
of  interest,  and  to  approach  it  was  to  invite  the 
attention  of  the  garrison.  At  head-quarters  a 
group  of  officers  turned  and  looked  her  way, 
there  was  a  flutter  among  the  frocks  on  Mrs. 
Holland's  porch,  and  the  enlisted  men,  smoking 
their  pipes  on  the  rail  of  the  barracks,  whispered 
together.  When  she  reached  Ranson's  hut  over 
four  hundred  pairs  of  eyes  were  upon  her,  and  her 
cheeks  were  flushing.  Ranson  came  leaping  to 
the  gate,  and  lifted  the  basket  from  her  arm  as 
though  he  were  removing  an  opera-cloak.  He 
set  it  upon  the  gate-post,  and  nervously  clasped 
the  palings  of  the  gate  with  both  hands.  He  had 
not  been  to  bed,  but  that  fact  alone  could  not 
explain  the  strangeness  of  his  manner.  Never 
before  had  she  seen  him  disconcerted  or  abashed. 

"  You  shouldn't  have  done  it,"  he  stammered. 
"Indeed,  indeed,  you  are  much  too  good.  But 
you  shouldn't  have  come." 

His  voice  shook  slightly. 

"  Why  not  ?  "  asked  Mary  Cahill.  «  I  couldn't 
let  you  go  hungry.*' 

58 


Ranson's  Folly 

cc  You  know  it  isn't  that,"  he  said  ;  cc  it's  your 
coming  here  at  all.  Why,  only  three  of  the  fellows 
have  been  near  me  this  morning.  And  they  only 
came  from  a  sense  of  duty.  I  know  they  did — 
I  could  feel  it.  You  shouldn't  have  come  here. 
I'm  not  a  proper  person ;  I'm  an  outlaw.  You 
might  think  this  was  a  pest-house,  you  might 
think  1  was  a  leper.  Why,  those  Stickney  girls 
have  been  watching  me  all  morning  through  a 
field-glass."  He  clasped  and  unclasped  his  fingers 
around  the  palings.  "  They  believe  I  did  it,"  he 
protested,  with  the  bewildered  accents  of  a  child 
"  They  all  believe  it." 

Miss  Cahill  laughed.  The  laugh  was  quieting 
and  comforting.  It  brought  him  nearer  to  earth, 
and  her  next  remark  brought  him  still  further. 

"Have  you  had  any  breakfast? "  she  asked. 

"  Breakfast !  "  stammered  Ranson.  "  No.  The 
guard  brought  some,  but  I  couldn't  eat  it.  This 
thing  has  taken  the  life  out  of  me — to  think  sane, 
sensible  people — my  own  people — could  believe 
that  I'd  steal,  that  I'd  kill  a  man  for  money." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  said  Miss  Cahill  soothingly ; 
"  but  you've  not  had  any  sleep,  and  you  need 
your  coffee."  She  lifted  the  lid  of  the  basket. 
"  It's  getting  cold,"  she  said.  "  Don't  you  worry 
about  what  people  think.  You  must  remember 
you're  a  prisoner  now  under  arrest.  You  can't 

59 


Ranson's  folly 

expect  the  officers  to  run  over  here  as  freely  as 
they  used  to.  What  do  you  want  ?  "  she  laughed. 
"Do  you  think  the  colonel  should  parade  the 
band  and  give  you  a  serenade  ?  "  For  a  moment 
Ranson  stared  at  her  dully,  and  then  his  sense  of 
proportion  returned  to  him.  He  threw  back  his 
head  and  laughed  with  her  joyfully. 

From  verandas,  barracks,  and  headquarters,  the 
four  hundred  pairs  of  eyes  noted  this  evidence  of 
heartlessness  with  varied  emotions.  But,  unmind- 
ful of  them,  Ranson  now  leaned  forward,  the 
eager,  searching  look  coming  back  into  his  black 
eyes.  They  were  so  close  to  Mary  Cahill's  that 
she  drew  away.  He  dropped  his  voice  to  a  whis- 
per and  spoke  swiftly. 

"  Miss  Cahill,  whatever  happens  to  me  I  won't 
forget  this.  I  won't  forget  your  coming  here  and 
throwing  heart  into  me.  You  were  the  only  one 
who  did.  I  haven't  asked  you  if  you  believe  that 
I " 

She  raised  her  eyes  reproachfully  and  smiled. 
<c  You  know  you  don't  have  to  do  that,"  she  said. 

The  prisoner  seized  the  palings  as  though  he 
meant  to  pull  apart  the  barrier  between  them. 
He  drew  a  long  breath  like  one  inhaling  a  draught 
of  clean  morning  air. 

"  No,"  he  said,  his  voice  ringing, "  I  don't  have 

to  do  that." 

60 


Ranson's  Folly 

He  cast  a  swift  glance  to  the  left  and  right. 
The  sentry's  bayonet  was  just  disappearing  behind 
the  corner  of  the  hut.  To  the  four  hundred  other 
eyes  around  the  parade-ground  Lieutenant  Ran- 
son's  attitude  suggested  that  he  was  explaining  to 
CahilFs  daughter  what  he  wanted  for  his  luncheon. 
His  eyes  held  her  as  firmly  as  though  the  palings 
he  clasped  were  her  two  hands. 

"  Mary,"  he  said,  and  the  speaking  of  her  name 
seemed  to  stop  the  beating  of  his  heart.  "  Mary," 
he  whispered,  as  softly  as  though  he  were  begin- 
ning a  prayer,  cc  you're  the  bravest,  the  sweetest, 
the  dearest  girl  in  all  the  world.  And  I've  known 
it  for  months,  and  now  you  must  know.  And 
there'll  never  be  any  other  girl  in  my  life  but  you." 

Mary  Cahill  drew  away  from  him  in  doubt  and 
Bonder. 

"  I  didn't  mean  to  tell  you  just  yet,"  he  whis- 
pered, "but  now  that  I've  seen  you  I  can't  help 
it.  I  knew  it  last  night  when  I  stood  back  there 
and  watched  your  windows,  and  couldn't  think  of 
this  trouble,  nor  of  anything  else,  but  just  you. 
And  you've  got  to  promise  me,  if  I  get  out  of 
this  all  right — you  must — must  promise  me " 

Mary  Cahill's  eyes,  as  she  raised  them  to  his, 
were  moist  and  glowing.  They  promised  him 
with  a  great  love  and  tenderness.  But  at  the  sight 
Ranson  protested  wildly. 

61 


cc 


Ranson's  Folly 

No,"  he  whispered,  "you  mustn't  promise — 
anything.  I  shouldn't  have  asked  it.  After  I'm 
out  of  this,  after  the  court-martial,  then  you've  got 
to  promise  that  you'll  never,  never  leave  me." 

Miss  Cahill  knit  her  hands  together  and 
turned  away  her  head.  The  happiness  in  her 
heart  rose  to  her  throat  like  a  great  melody  and 
choked  her.  Before  her,  exposed  in  the  thin  spring 
sunshine,  was  the  square  of  ugly  brown  cottages, 
the  bare  parade-ground,  in  its  centre  Trumpeter 
Tyler  fingering  his  bugle,  and  beyond  on  every 
side  an  ocean  of  blackened  prairie.  But  she  saw 
nothing  of  this.  She  saw  instead  a  beautiful 
world  opening  its  arms  to  her,  a  world  smiling 
with  sunshine,  glowing  with  color,  singing  with 
love  and  content. 

She  turned  to  him  with  all  that  was  in  her 
heart  showing  in  her  face. 

"  Don't !  "  he  begged,  tremblingly, cc  don't  an- 
swer. I  couldn't  bear  it — if  you  said  c  no '  to 
me."  He  jerked  his  head  toward  the  men  who 
guarded  him.  "  Wait  until  I'm  tried,  and  not  in 
disgrace."  He  shook  the  gate  between  them 
savagely  as  .hough  it  actually  held  him  a  prisoner. 

Mary  Cahill  raised  her  head  proudly. 

cc  You  have  no  right.  You've  hurt  me,"  she 
whispered.  "You  hurt  me." 

"  Hurt  you  ?  "  he  cried. 
62 


Ranson's  Folly 

She  pressed  her  hands  together.  It  was  im- 
possible to  tell  him,  it  was  impossible  to  speak  of 
what  she  felt ;  of  the  pride,  of  the  trust  and  love, 
to  disclose  this  new  and  wonderful  thing  while  the 
gate  was  between  them,  while  the  sentries  paced 
on  either  side,  while  the  curious  eyes  of  the  gar- 
rison were  fastened  upon  her. 

"  Oh,  can't  you  see  ?  "  she  whispered.  "  As 
though  I  cared  for  a  court-martial !  I  know  you. 
You  are  just  the  same.  You  are  just  what  you  have 
always  been  to  me — what  you  always  will  be  to  me." 

She  thrust  her  hand  toward  him  and  he  seized 
it  in  both  of  his,  and  then  released  it  instantly, 
and,  as  though  afraid  of  his  own  self-control, 
backed  hurriedly  from  her,  and  she  turned  and 
walked  rapidly  away. 

Captain  Carr,  who  had  been  Ranson's  captain 
in  the  Philippines,  and  who  was  much  his  friend, 
had  been  appointed  to  act  as  his  counsel.  When 
later  that  morning  he  visited  his  client  to  lay  out 
a  line  of  defence  he  found  Ranson  inclined  to 
treat  the  danger  which  threatened  him  with  the 
most  arrogant  flippancy.  He  had  never  seen  him 
in  a  more  objectionable  mood. 

cc  You  can  call  the  charge  c  tommy-rot '  if  you 
like,"  Carr  protested,  sharply.  "  But,  let  me  tell 
you  that's  not  the  view  any  one  else  takes  of  it, 
and  if  you  expect  the  officers  of  the  court-martial 

63 


Ranson's  Folly 

and  the  civil  authorities  to  take  that  view  of  it 
you've  got  to  get  down  to  work  and  help  me 
prove  that  it  is  ' tommy  rot.'  That  Miss  Post,  as 
soon  as  she  got  here,  when  she  thought  it  was 
only  a  practical  joke,  told  them  that  the  road 
agent  threatened  her  with  a  pair  of  shears.  Now, 
Crosby  and  Curtis  will  testify  that  you  took  a 
pair  of  shears  from  Cahill's,  and  from  what  Miss 
Post  saw  of  your  ring  she  can  probably  identify 
that,  too  ;  so " 

"  Oh,  we  concede  the  shears,"  declared  Ranson, 
waving  his  hand  grandly.  "  We  admit  the  first 
hold-up." 

"  The  devil  we  do  ! "  returned  Carr.  "  Now, 
as  your  counsel,  I  advise  nothing  of  the  sort.'* 

"  You  advise  me  to  lie?  " 

"  Sir !  "  exclaimed  Carr.  "A  plea  of  not  guilty 
is  only  a  legal  form.  When  you  consider  that  the 
first  hold-up  in  itself  is  enough  to  lose  you  your 
commission " 

"  Well,  it's  my  commission,"  said  Ranson.  "  It 
was  only  a  silly  joke,  anyway.  And  the  War  De- 
partment must  have  some  sense  of  humor  or  it 
wouldn't  have  given  me  a  commission  in  the  first 
place.  Of  course,  we'll  admit  the  first  hold-up, 
but  we  won't  stand  for  the  second  one.  I  had  no 
more  to  do  with  that  than  with  the  Whitechapel 
murders." 

64 


Ranson's  Folly 

"  How  are  we  to  prove  that  ?  "  demanded  Carr. 
K  Where's  your  alibi  ?  Where  were  you  after  the 
first  hold-up  ? " 

"  I  was  making  for  home  as  fast  as  I  could  cut," 
said  Ranson.  He  suddenly  stopped  in  his  walk 
up  and  down  the  room  and  confronted  his  coun- 
sel sternly.  "  Captain/'  he  demanded,  "  I  wish 
you  to  instruct  me  on  a  point  of  law." 

Carr's  brow  relaxed.  He  was  relieved  to  find 
that  Ranson  had  awakened  to  the  seriousness  of 
the  charges  against  him. 

"  That's  what  I'm  here  for,"  he  said,  encourag- 
ingly. 

"  Well,  captain,"  said  Ranson,  cc  if  an  officer  is 
under  arrest  as  I  am  and  confined  to  his  quarters, 
is  he  or  is  he  not  allowed  to  send  to  the  club  for 
a  bottle  of  champagne  ? " 

"  Really,  Ranson  !  "  cried  the  captain,  angrily, 
"  you  are  impossible." 

"  I  only  want  to  celebrate,"  said  Ranson,  meek- 
ly. "  I'm  a  very  happy  man;  I'm  the  happiest 
man  on  earth.  I  want  to  ride  across  the  prairie 
shooting  off  both  guns  and  yelling  like  a  cowboy. 
Instead  of  which  I  am  locked  up  indoors  and 
have  to  talk  to  you  about  a  highway  robbery 
which  does  not  amuse  me,  which  does  not  concern 
me — and  of  which  I  know  nothing  and  care  less. 
Now,  you  are  detailed  to  prove  me  innocent 

65 


Ranson's  Folly 

That's  your  duty,  and  you  ought  to  do  your  duty, 
But  don't  drag  me  in.  I've  got  much  more  im- 
portant things  to  think  about." 

Bewilderment,  rage,  and  despair  were  written 
upon  the  face  of  the  captain. 

"  Ranson  !  "  he  roared.  cc  Is  this  a  pose,  or 
are  you  mad?  Can't  you  understand  that  you 
came  very  near  to  being  hanged  for  murder  and 
that  you  are  in  great  danger  of  going  to  jail  for 
theft?  Let  me  put  before  you  the  extremely 
unpleasant  position  in  which  you  have  been  ass 
enough  to  place  yourself.  You  don't  quite  seem 
to  grasp  it.  You  tell  two  brother-officers  that 
you  are  going  to  rob  the  stage.  To  do  so  you 
disguise  yourself  in  a  poncho  and  a  red  handker- 
chief, and  you  remove  the  army-stirrups  from 
your  stirrup-leathers.  You  then  do  rob  this  coach, 
or  at  least  hold  it  up,  and  you  are  recognized.  A 
few  minutes  later,  in  the  same  trail  and  in  the 
same  direction  you  have  taken,  there  is  a  second 
hold-up,  this  time  of  the  paymaster.  The  man 
who  robs  the  paymaster  wears  a  poncho  and  a  red 
kerchief,  and  he  has  no  stirrups  in  his  stirrup- 
leathers.  The  two  hold-ups  take  place  within 
a  half-mile  of  each  other,  within  five  minutes  of 
each  other.  Now,  is  it  reasonable  to  believe  that 
last  night  two  men  were  hiding  in  the  buttes  in- 
tent upon  robbery,  each  in  an  army  poncho,  each 


Ranson's  Folly 

wearing  a  red  bandanna  handkerchief,  and  each 
riding  without  stirrups  ?  Between  believing  in 
such  a  strange  coincidence  and  that  you  did  it, 
I'll  be  hanged  if  I  don't  believe  you  did  it." 

"  I  don't  blame  you,"  said  Ranson.  "  What 
can  I  do  to  set  your  mind  at  rest  ? " 

"  Well,  tell  me  exactly  what  persons  knew  that 
you  meant  to  hold  up  the  stage/' 

"  Curtis  and  Crosby  ;  no  one  else." 

"  Not  even  Cahill  ?  " 

<c  No,  Cahill  came  in  just  before  I  said  I  would 
stop  the  stage,  but  I  remember  particularly  that 
before  I  spoke  I  waited  for  him  to  get  back  to 
the  exchange." 

"  And  Crosby  tells  me,"  continued  Carr, c<  that 
the  instant  you  had  gone  he  looked  into  the  ex- 
change and  saw  Cahill  at  the  farthest  corner  from 
the  door.  He  could  have  heard  nothing." 

"  If  you  ask  me,  I  think  you've  begun  at  the 
wrong  end,"  said  Ranson.  "  If  I  were  looking 
for  the  Red  Rider  I'd  search  for  him  in  Kiowa 
City." 

«  Why  ? " 

"  Because,  at  this  end  no  one  but  a  few  officers 
knew  that  the  paymaster  was  coming,  while  in 
Kiowa  everybody  in  the  town  knew  it,  for  they 
saw  him  start.  It  would  be  very  easy  for  one  of 
those  cowboys  to  ride  ahead  and  lie  in  wait  for 

67 


Ranson's  Folly 

him  in  the  buttes.  There  are  several  tough 
specimens  in  Kiowa.  Any  one  of  them  would 
rob  a  man  for  twenty  dollars — let  alone  ten 
thousand.  There's  'Abe '  Fisher  and  Foster 
King,  and  the  Chase  boys,  and  I  believe  old 
'  Pop '  Henderson  himself  isn't  above  holding 
up  one  of  his  own  stages." 

"  He's  above  shooting  himself  in  the  lungs," 
said  Carr.  "  Nonsense.  No,  I  am  convinced 
that  someone  followed  you  from  this  post,  and 
perhaps  Cahill  can  tell  us  who  that  was.  I  sent 
for  him  this  morning,  and  he's  waiting  at  my 
quarters  now.  Suppose  I  ask  him  to  step  over 
here,  so  that  we  can  discuss  it  together." 

Before  he  answered,  Ranson  hesitated,  with  his 
eyes  on  the  ground.  He  had  no  way  of  knowing 
whether  Mary  Cahill  had  told  her  father  anything 
of  what  he  had  said  to  her  that  morning.  But  if 
she  had  done  so,  he  did  not  want  to  meet  Cahill 
in  the  presence  of  a  third  party  for  the  first  time 
since  he  had  learned  the  news. 

*'  I'll  tell  you  what  I  wish  you  would  do,"  he 
said.  "  i  wish  you'd  let  me  see  Cahill  first,  by 
myself.  What  I  want  to  see  him  about  has 
nothing  to  do  with  the  hold-up,"  he  added.  "  It 
concerns  only  us  two,  but  I'd  like  to  have  it  out 
of  the  way  before  we  consult  him  as  a  witness." 

Carr  rose  doubtfully,  "  Why,  certainly,"  ha 
68 


Ranson's  Folly" 

said;  "I'll  send  him  over,  and  when  you're 
ready  for  me  step  out  on  the  porch  and  call.  I '11 
be  sitting  on  my  veranda.  1  hope  you've  had  no 
quarrel  with  Cahill — I  mean  I  hope  this  personal 
matter  is  nothing  that  will  prejudice  him  against 
you." 

Ranson  smiled.  cc  I  hope  not,  too,"  he  said. 
**  No,  weVe  not  quarrelled — yet,"  he  added. 

Carr  still  lingered.  "  Cahill  is  like  to  be  a  very 
important  witness  for  the  other  side " 

"  I  doubt  it,"  said  Ranson,  easily.  "  Cahill's  a 
close-mouthed  chap,  but  when  he  does  talk  he 
talks  to  the  point  and  he'll  tell  the  truth.  That 
can't  hurt  us/' 

As  Cahill  crossed  the  parade-ground  from 
Captain  Carr's  quarters  on  his  way  to  Ranson's 
hut  his  brain  was  crowded  swiftly  with  doubts> 
memories,  and  resolves.  For  him  the  interview 
held  no  alarms.  He  had  no  misgivings  as  to  its 
outcome.  For  his  daughter's  sake  he  was  de- 
termined that  he  himself  must  not  be  disgraced 
in  her  eves  and  that  to  that  end  Ranson  must  be 
sacrificed.  It  was  to  make  a  lady  of  her,  as  he 
understood  what  a  lady  should  be,  that  on  six 
moonlit  raids  he  had  ventured  forth  in  his  red 
mask  and  robbed  the  Kiowa  stage.  That  there 
were  others  who  roamed  abroad  in  the  disguise  of 
the  Red  Rider  he  was  well  aware.  There  were 

69 


Ransorfs  Folly 

nights  the  stage  was  held  up  when  he  was  inncx 
cently  busy  behind  his  counter  in  touch  with  the 
whole  garrison.  Of  these  nights  he  made  much. 
They  were  alibis  furnished  by  his  rivals.  The) 
served  to  keep  suspicion  from  himself,  and  he, 
working  for  the  same  object,  was  indefatigable  in 
proclaiming  that  all  the  depredations  of  the  Red 
Rider  showed  the  handiwork  of  one  and  the  same 
individual. 

"He  comes  from  Kiowa  of  course/'  he  would 
point  out.  "  Some  feller  who  lives  where  the 
stage  starts,  and  knows  when  the  passengers  carry 
money.  You  don't  hear  of  him  holding  up  a 
stage  full  of  recruits  or  cow-punchers.  It's  always 
the  drummers  and  the  mine  directors  that  the  Red 
Rider  lays  for.  How  does  he  know  they're  in 
the  stage  if  he  don't  see  'em  start  from  Kiowa'? 
Ask  'Pop'  Henderson.  Ask  '  Abe  '  Fisher, 
Mebbe  they  know  more  than  they'd  care  to  tell.** 

The  money  which  at  different  times  Cahill  had 
taken  from  the  Kiowa  stage  lay  in  a  New  York 
bank,  and  the  law  of  limitation  made  it  now  pos- 
sible for  him  to  return  to  that  city  and  claim  it, 
Already  his  savings  were  sufficient  in  amount  to 
support  both  his  daughter  and  himself  in  one  of 
those  foreign  cities,  of  which  she  had  so  often 
told  him  and  for  which  he  knew  she  hungered. 
And  for  the  last  five  years  he  had  had  no  other 

70 


Ranson's  Folly 

object  in  living  than  to  feed  her  wants.  Through 
some  strange  trick  of  the  mind  he  remembered 
suddenly  and  vividly  a  long-forgotten  scene  in 
the  back  room  of  McTurk's,  when  he  was  Mo- 
Turk's  bouncer.  The  night  before  a  girl  had 
killed  herself  in  this  same  back  room ;  she  made 
the  third  who  had  done  so  in  the  month.  He 
recalled  the  faces  of  the  reporters  eyeing  McTurk 
in  cold  distaste  as  that  terror  of  the  Bowery 
whimpered  before  them  on  his  knees.  cc  But  my 
daughters  will  read  it,"  he  had  begged.  "  Suppose 
they  believe  I'm  what  you  call  me.  Don't  go  and 
give  me  a  bad  name  to  them,  gentlemen.  It  ain't 
my  fault  the  girl's  died  here.  You  wouldn't  have 
my  daughters  think  I'm  to  blame  for  that? 
They're  ladies,  my  daughters,  they're  just  out  of 
the  convent,  and  they  don't  know  that  there  is 
such  women  in  the  world  as  come  to  this  place. 
And  I  can't  have  *em  turned  against  their  old  pop. 
For  God's  sake,  gentlemen,  don't  let  my  girls 
know ! " 

Cahill  remembered  the  contempt  he  had  felt 
for  his  employer  as  he  pulled  him  to  his  feet,  but 
now  McTurk's  appeal  seemed  just  and  natural. 
His  point  of  view  was  that  of  the  loving  and  con- 
siderate parent.  In  Cahill's  mind  there  was  no 
moral  question  involved.  If  to  make  his  girl  rich 
»nd  a  lady,  and  to  lift  her  out  of  the  life  of  the 


Ranson's  Folly 

Exchange,  was  a  sin  the  sin  was  his  own  and  he 
was  willing  to  "  stand  for  it."  And,  like  McTurk, 
he  would  see  that  the  sin  of  the  father  was  not 
visited  upon  the  child.  Ranson  was  rich,  fool- 
ishly, selfishly  rich  ;  his  father  was  a  United  States 
Senator  with  influence  enough,  and  money  enough, 
to  fight  the  law — to  buy  his  son  out  of  jail. 
Sooner  than  his  daughter  should  know  that  her 
father  was  one  of  those  who  sometimes  wore  the 
mask  of  the  Red  Rider,  Ranson,  for  all  he  cared, 
could  go  to  jail,  or  to  hell.  With  this  ultimatum 
in  his  mind,  Cahill  confronted  his  would-be  son- 
in-law  with  a  calm  and  assured  countenance. 

Ranson  greeted  him  with  respectful  deference, 
and  while  Cahill  seated  himself,  Ranson,  chatting 
hospitably,  placed  cigars  and  glasses  before  him. 
He  began  upon  the  subject  that  touched  him  the 
most  nearly. 

"  Miss  Cahill  was  good  enough  to  bring  up  my 
breakfast  this  morning,"  he  said.  "  Has  she  told 
you  of  what  I  said  to  her  ?  " 

Cahill  shook  his  head.  "  No,  I  haven't  seen 
her.  We've  been  taking  account  of  stock  all 
morning." 

"  Then — then  you've  heard  nothing  from  her 
about  me  ?  "  said  Ranson. 

The  post  trader  raised  his  head  in  surprise. 
"No.  Captain  Carr  spoke  to  me  about  your  arrest, 

72 


Ranson's  Folly 

and  then  said  you  wanted  to  see  me  first  about 
something  private."  The  post  trader  fixed  Ran- 
son  with  his  keen,  unwavering  eyes.  "  What 
might  that  be  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Well,  it  doesn't  matter  now,"  stammered 
Ranson  ;  "  I'll  wait  until  Miss  Cahill  tells  you/ ' 

"Any  complaint  about  the  food?"  inquired 
the  post  trader. 

Ranson  laughed  nervously.  "No,  it's  not 
that,"  he  said.  He  rose,  and,  to  protect  what 
Miss  Cahill  evidently  wished  to  remain  a  secret, 
changed  the  subject.  "  You  see  you've  lived  in 
these  parts  so  long,  Mr.  Cahill,"  he  explained, 
"  and  you  know  so  many  people,  I  thought  maybe 
you  could  put  me  on  the  track  or  give  me  some 
hint  as  to  which  of  that  Kiowa  gang  really  did  rob 
the  paymaster."  Ranson  was  pulling  the  cork 
from  the  whiskey  bottle,  and  when  he  asked  the 
question  Cahill  pushed  his  glass  from  him  and 
shook  his  head.  Ranson  looked  up  interrogatively 
and  smiled.  "You  mean  you  think  I  did  it  my- 
self? "  he  asked. 

"  I  didn't  understand  from  Captain  Carr,"  the 
post  trader  began  in  heavy  tones,  "  that  it's  my 
opinion  you're  after.  He  said  I  might  be  wanted 
to  testify  who  was  present  last  night  in  my  store." 

"  Certainly,  that's  all  we  want,"  Ranson  an- 
swered, genially.  "  I  only  thought  you  might 

73 


Ranson's  Folly- 
give  me  a  friendly  pointer  or  two  on  the  outside. 
And,  of  course,  if  it's  your  opinion  I  did  the  deed 
we  certainly  don't  want  your  opinion.  But  that 
needn't  prevent  your  taking  a  drink  with  me,  need 
it?  Don't  be  afraid.  I'm  not  trying  to  corrupt 
you.  And  I'm  not  trying  to  poison  a  witness  for 
the  other  fellows,  either.  Help  yourself." 

Cahill  stretched  out  his  left  hand.  His  right 
remained  hidden  in  the  side  pocket  of  his  coat. 
"What's  the  matter  with  your  right  hand?" 
Ranson  asked.  "  Are  you  holding  a  gun  on  me  ? 
Really,  Mr.  Cahill,  you're  not  taking  any  chances, 
are  you  ? "  Ranson  gazed  about  the  room  as 
though  seeking  an  appreciative  audience.  "  He's 
such  an  important  witness,"  he  cried,  delightedly, 
"  that  first  he's  afraid  I'll  poison  him  and  he  won't 
drink  with  me,  and  now  he  covers  me  with  a 
gun." 

Reluctantly,  Cahill  drew  out  his  hand.  cc  I  was 
putting  the  bridle  on  my  pony  last  night,"  he 
said.  "  He  bit  me." 

Ranson  exclaimed  sympathetically,  "  Oh,  that's 
too  bad,"  he  said.  "  Well,  you  know  you  want 
to  be  careful.  A  horse's  teeth  really  are  poison- 
ous." He  examined  his  own  hands  complacently. 
"  Now,  if  I  had  a  bandage  like  that  on  my  right 
hand  they  would  hang  me  sure,  no  matter  whether 
it  was  a  bite,  or  a  burn,  or  a  bullet." 

74 


Ranson's   Folly 

Cahill  raised  the  glass  to  his  lips  and  sipped  the 
whiskey  critically.  "  Why  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Why  ?  Why,  didn't  you  know  that  the  pay- 
master boasted  last  night  to  the  surgeons  that  he 
hit  this  fellow  in  the  hand  ?  He  says " 

Cahill  snorted  scornfully.  "  How'd  he  know 
that  ?  What  makes  him  think  so  ?  " 

"  Well,  never  mind,  let  him  think  so,"  Ranson 
answered,  fervently.  "  Don't  discourage  him. 
That's  the  only  evidence  I've  got  on  my  side. 
He  says  he  fired  to  disarm  the  man,  and  that  he 
saw  him  shift  his  gun  to  his  left  hand.  It  was 
the  shot  that  the  man  fired  when  he  held  his  gun 
in  his  left  that  broke  the  colonel's  arm.  Now, 
everybody  knows  I  can't  hit  a  barn  with  my  left. 
And  as  for  having  any  wounds  concealed  about 
my  person  " — Ranson  turned  his  hands  like  a  con- 
jurer to  show  the  front  and  back — "  they  can 
search  me.  So,  if  the  paymaster  will  only  stick  ta 
that  story — that  he  hit  the  man — it  will  help  me 
a  lot."  Ranson  seated  himself  on  the  table  and 
swung  his  leg.  "  And  of  course  it  would  be  a  big 
help,  too,  if  you  could  remember  who  was  in  your 
Exchange  when  I  was  planning  to  rob  the  coach. 
For  someone  certainly  must  have  overheard  me, 
someone  must  have  copied  my  disguise,  and  that 
someone  is  the  man  we  must  find.  Unless  he 
came  from  Kiowa." 

75 


Ranson  s   Folly 

Cahill  shoved  his  glass  from  him  across  the 
table  and,  placing  his  hands  on  his  knees,  stared 
at  his  host  coldly  ana  defiantly.  His  would-be 
son-in-law  observed  the  aggressiveness  of  his  atti- 
tude, but,  in  his  fuller  knowledge  of  their  pros- 
pective relations,  smiled  blandly. 

"  Mr.  Ranson,"  began  Cahill,  "  I've  no  feelings 
against  you  personally.  I've  a  friendly  feeling 
for  all  of  you  young  gentlemen  at  my  mess.  But 
you're  not  playing  fair  with  me.  I  can  see  what 
you  want,  and  I  can  tell  you  that  you  and  Cap- 
tain Carr  are  not  helping  your  case  by  asking  me 
up  here  to  drink  and  smoke  with  you,  when  you 
know  that  I'm  the  most  important  witness  they've 
got  against  you." 

Ranson  stared  at  his  father-in-law-elect  in  gen- 
uine amazement,  and  then  laughed  lightly, 

"  Why,  dear  Mr.  Cahill,"  he  cried,  «  I  wouldn't 
think  of  bribing  you  with  such  a  bad  brand  of 
whiskey  as  this.  And  I  didn't  know  you  were 
such  an  important  witness  as  all  that.  But,  of 
course,  I  know  whatever  you  say  in  this  commu- 
nity goes,  and  if  your  testimony  is  against  me,  I'm 
sorry  for  it,  very  sorry.  I  suppose  you  will  tes- 
tify that  there  was  no  one  in  the  Exchange  who 
could  have  heard  my  plan  ?  " 

Cahill  nodded. 

"And,  as  it's  not  likely  two  men  at  exactly  the 
76 


Ranson's  Folly 

same  time  should  have  thought  of  robbing  the 
stage  in  exactly  the  same  way,  I  must  have  robbed 
it  myself." 

Cahill  nursed  his  bandaged  hand  with  the  other, 
*  That's  the  courts  business,"  he  growled ;  "  I 
mean  to  tell  the  truth." 

"  And  the  truth  is  ?  "  asked  Ranson. 

"  The  truth  is  that  last  night  there  was  no  one 
sn  the  Exchange  but  you  officers  and  me.  If  any- 
body'd  come  in  on  the  store  side  you'd  have  seen 
him,  wouldn't  you?  and  if  he'd  come  into  the 
Exchange  I'd  have  seen  him.  But  no  one  come 
in.  I  was  there  alone — and  certainly  I  didn't 
hear  your  plan,  and  I  didn't  rob  the  stage.  When 
you  fellows  left  I  went  down  to  the  Indian  vil- 
lage. Half  the  reservation  can  prove  I  was  there 
all  the  evening — so  of  the  four  of  us,  that  lets  me 
out.  Crosby  and  Curtis  were  in  command  of  the 
pay  escort — that's  their  alibi — and  as  far  as  I  can 
see,  lieutenant,  fhat  puts  it  up  to  you." 

Ranson  laughed  and  shook  his  head.  "  Yest, 
it  certainly  looks  that  way,"  he  said.  "  Only  I 
can't  see  why  you  need  be  so  damned  pleased 
about  it."  He  grinned  wickedly.  "  If  you  weren't 
such  a  respectable  member  of  Fort  Crockett  so- 
ciety  I  might  say  you  listened  at  the  door,  and 
rode  after  me  in  one  of  your  own  ponchos.  As 
for  the  Indian  village,  that's  no  alibi  A  Kiow$ 

77 


Ranson's  Folly 

mil  swear  his  skin's  as  white  as  yours  if  you  give 
him  a  drink." 

"  And  is  that  why  I  get  this  one  ? "  Cahill  de- 
manded. "  Am  I  a  Kiowa  ? " 

Ranson  laughed  and  shoved  the  bottle  toward 
his  father-in-law-elect. 

"  Oh,  can't  you  take  a  joke  ?  "  he  said.  "  Take 
another  drink,  then." 

The  voice  outside  the  hut  was  too  low  to  reach 
the  irate  Cahill,  but  Ranson  heard  it  and  leaped 
to  his  feet. 

"  Wait,"  he  commanded.  He  ran  to  the  door$ 
and  met  Sergeant  Clancey  at  the  threshold. 

"  Miss  Cahill,  lieutenant,"  said  the  sergeant, 
**  wants  to  see  her  father." 

Cahill  had  followed  Ranson  to  the  door, 
**  You  want  to  see  me,  Mame  ? "  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  Miss  Cahill  cried;  "and  Mr.  Ranson, 
too,  if  I  may."  She  caught  her  father  eagerly  by 
the  arm,  but  her  eyes  were  turned  joyfully  upon 
Ranson.  They  were  laughing  with  excitement. 
Her  voice  was  trembling  and  eager. 

"  It  is  something  I  have  discovered,"  she  cried; 
w  I  found  it  out  just  now,  and  I  think — oh,  I 
hope ! — it  is  most  important.  I  believe  it  will 
clear  Mr.  Ranson ! "  she  cried,  happily.  "  At 
ieast  it  will  show  that  last  night  someone  went 
out  to  rob  the  coach  and  went  dressed  as  he 

78 


Ransorfs  Folly 

Cahill  gave  a  short  laugh.  "  What's  his 
name?  "  he  asked,  mockingly.  cc  Have  you  seen 
him  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  see  him  and  I  don't  know  his  name, 
but •" 

Cahill  snorted,  and  picked  up  his  sombrero 
from  the  table.  "  Then  it's  not  so  very  important 
after  all,"  he  said.  <c  Is  that  all  that  brought  you 
mere?" 

<c  The  main  thing  is  that  she  is  here,"  said 
Ranson  ;  "  for  which  the  poor  prisoner  is  grateful 
— grateful  to  her  and  to  the  man  she  hasn't  seen, 
in  the  mask  and  poncho,  whose  name  she  doesn't 
know.  Mr.  Cahill,  bad  as  it  is,  I  insist  on  your 
finishing  your  whiskey.  Miss  Cahill,  please  sif 
down." 

He  moved  a  chair  toward  her  and,  as  he  did  so, 
looked  full  into  her  face  with  such  love  and  hap- 
piness that  she  turned  her  eyes  away3 

"  Well  ?  "  asked  Cahill. 

"  I  must  first  explain  to  Lieutenant  Ranson, 
father,"  said  his  daughter,  cc  that  to-day  is  the 
day  we  take  account  of  stock." 

"  Speaking  of  stock,"  said  Ranson,  c<  don't 
forget  that  I  owe  you  for  a  red  kerchief  and  a 
rubber  poncho.  You  can  have  them  back,  if  you 
like.  I  won't  need  a  rain  coat  where  I  am  go- 
ing." 

79 


Ranson's  Folly 

"  Don't,"  said  Miss  Cahill.  "  Please  let  me  go 
on.  After  I  brought  you  your  breakfast  here, 
I  couldn't  begin  to  work  just  at  once.  I  was 
thinking  about — something  else.  Everyone  was 
talking  of  you — your  arrest,  and  I  couldn't  settle 
down  to  take  account  of  stock."  She  threw  a 
look  at  Ranson  which  asked  for  his  sympathy. 
"  But  when  I  did  start  I  began  with  the  ponchos 
and  the  red  kerchiefs,  and  then  I  found  out 
something." 

Cahill  was  regarding  his  daughter  in  strange 
distress,  but  Ranson  appeared  indifferent  to  her 
words,  and  intent  only  on  the  light  and  beauty  in 
her  face.  But  he  asked,  smiling,  "  And  that 
was  ? " 

cf  You  see,"  continued  Miss  Cahill,  eagerly,  "  I 
always  keep  a  dozen  of  each  article,  and  as  each 
one  is  sold  I  check  it  off  in  my  day-book.  Yes- 
*erday  Mrs.  Bolland  bought  a  poncho  for  the 
colonel.  That  left  eleven  ponchos.  Then  a  few 
minutes  later  I  gave  Lightfoot  a  red  kerchief  for 
his  squaw.  That  left  eleven  kerchiefs." 

"Stop!"  cried  Ranson.  "Miss  Cahill,"  he 
began,  severely,  "  I  hope  you  do  not  mean  to 
throw  suspicion  on  the  wife  of  my  respected 
colonel,  or  on  Mrs.  Lightfoot,  c  the  Prairie 
Flower/  Those  ladies  are  my  personal  friends ; 
I  refuse  to  believe  them  guilty.  And  have  you 

So 


Ranson's  Folly 

ever  seen  Mrs.  Holland  on  horseback?  You 
wrong  her.  It  is  impossible." 

"  Please,"  begged  Miss  Cahill,  "  please  let  me 
explain.  When  you  went  to  hold  up  the  stage 
you  took  a  poncho  and  a  kerchief,  That  should 
have  left  ten  of  each.  But  when  I  counted  them 
this  morning  there  were  nine  red  kerchiefs  and 
nine  ponchos." 

Ranson  slapped  his  knee  sharply.  "  Good  !  " 
he  said.  "  That  is  interesting." 

"What  does  it  prove? "  demanded  Cahill. 

"It  proves  nothing,  or  it  proves  everything," 
said  Miss  Cahill.  "  To  my  mind  it  proves  with- 
out any  doubt  that  someone  overheard  Mr.  Ran- 
son's plan,  that  he  dressed  like  him  to  throw 
suspicion  on  him,  and  that  this  second  person 
was  the  one  who  robbed  the  paymaster.  Now, 
father,  this  is  where  you  can  help  us.  You  were 
there  then.  Try  to  remember.  It  is  so  impor- 
tant. Who  came  into  the  store  after  the  others 
had  gone  away  ?  " 

Cahill  tossed  his  head  like  an  angry  bull. 

"  There  are  fifty  places  in  this  post,"  he  pro- 
tested, roughly,  "  where  a  man  can  get  a  poncho. 
Every  trooper  owns  his  slicker." 

"  But,  father,  we  don't  know  that  theirs  are 
missing,"  cried  Miss  Cahill,  "and  we  do  know 
that  those  in  our  store  are.  Don't  think  I  am 

81 


Ranson's   Folly 

foolish.     It  seemed  such  an  important  fact  to  me, 
and  I  had  hoped  it  would  help." 

"It  does  help — immensely  ! "  cried  Ranson. 
"  I  think  it's  a  splendid  clue.  But,  unfortunately, 
I  don't  think  we  can  prove  anything  by  your 
father,  for  he's  just  been  telling  me  that  there  was 
no  one  in  the  place  but  himself.  No  one  came 
in,  and  he  was  quite  alone — "  Ranson  had  begun 
speaking  eagerly,  but  either  his  own  words  or 
the  intentness  with  which  Cahill  received  them 
caused  him  to  halt  and  hesitate — "absolutely — 
alone." 

"  You  see,"  said  Cahill,  thickly,  "  as  soon  as 
they  had  gone  I  rode  to  the  Indian  village." 

"Why,  no,  father,"  corrected  Miss  Cahill. 
"  Don't  you  remember,  you  told  me  last  night 
that  when  you  reached  Lightfoot's  tent  I  had  just 
gone.  That  was  quite  two  hours  after  the  others 
left  the  store."  In  her  earnestness  Miss  Cahill 
had  placed  her  hand  upon  her  father's  arm  and 
clutched  it  eagerly.  "And  you  remember  no  one 
coming  in  before  you  left  ?  "  she  asked.  "  No 
one  ? " 

Cahill  had  not  replaced  the  bandaged  hand  in 
his  pocket,  but  had  shoved  it  inside  the  opening 
of  his  coat.  As  Mary  Cahill  caught  his  arm  her 
fingers  sank  into  the  palm  of  the  hand  and  he 
gave  a  slight  grimace  of  pain. 

82 


Ranson's  Folly 

"  Oh,  father,"  Miss  Cahill  cried,"  your  hand  !  I 
am  so  sorry.  Did  I  hurt  it  ?  Please — let  me  see." 

Cahill  drew  back  with  sudden  violence. 

"  No  !  "  he  cried.  "  Leave  it  alone  !  Come, 
we  must  be  going."  But  Miss  Cahill  held  the 
wounded  hand  in  both  her  own.  When  she 
turned  her  eyes  to  Ranson  they  were  filled  with 
tender  concern. 

"  I  hurt  him,"  she  said,  reproachfully.  cc  He 
shot  himself  last  night  with  one  of  those  new 
cylinder  revolvers." 

Her  father  snatched  the  hand  from  her.  He 
tried  to  drown  her  voice  by  a  sudden  movement 
toward  the  door.  "  Come  !  "  he  called.  "  Do 
you  hear  me  ?  " 

But  his  daughter  in  her  sympathy  continued. 
cc  He  was  holding  it  so,"  she  said,  "and  it  went 
off,  and  the  bullet  passed  through  here."  She 
laid  the  tip  of  a  slim  white  finger  on  the  palm  of 
her  right  hand. 

"  The  bullet !  "  cried  Ranson.  He  repeated, 
dully,  "  The  bullet !  " 

There  was  a  sudden,  tense  silence.  Outside 
they  could  hear  the  crunch  of  the  sentry's  heel  in 
the  gravel,  and  from  the  baseball  field  back  of  the 
barracks  the  soft  spring  air  was  rent  with  the 
jubilant  crack  of  the  bat  as  it  drove  the  ball. 
Afterward  Ranson  remembered  that  while  one- 

83 


Ranson's  Folly 

half  of  his  brain  was  terribly  acute  to  the  moment, 
the  other  was  wondering  whether  the  runner  had 
made  his  base.  It  seemed  an  interminable  time 
before  Ranson  raised  his  eyes  from  Miss  CahiU's 
palm  to  her  father's  face.  What  he  read  in  them 
caused  Cahill  to  drop  his  hand  swiftly  to  his  hip. 

Ranson  saw  the  gesture  and  threw  out  both  his 
hands.  He  gave  a  hysterical  laugh,  strangely 
boyish  and  immature,  and  ran  to  place  himself 
between  Cahill  and  the  door.  "  Drop  it ! "  he 
whispered.  "  My  God,  man ! "  he  entreated, 
"don't  make  a  fool  of  yourself.  Mr.  Cahill,"  he 
cried  aloud,  cc  you  can't  go  till  you  know.  Can 
he,  Mary  ?  Yes,  Mary."  The  tone  in  which  he 
repeated  the  name  was  proprietary  and  command- 
ing. He  took  her  hand.  "  Mr.  Cahill,"  he  said, 
joyously,  "  we've  got  something  to  tell  you.  I 
want  you  to  understand  that  in  spite  of  all  Fve 
done — I  say  in  spite  of  all  I've  done — I  mean 
getting  into  this  trouble  and  disgrace,  and  all  that 
— I've  dared  to  ask  your  daughter  to  marry  me." 
He  turned  and  led  Miss  Cahill  swiftly  toward  the 
veranda.  "  Oh,  I  knew  he  wouldn't  like  it,"  he 
cried.  "  You  see.  I  told  you  so.  You've  got 
to  let  me  talk  to  him  alone.  You  go  outside  and 
wait.  I  can  talk  better  when  you  are  not  here. 
I'll  soon  bring  him  around." 

"  Father,"  pleaded  Miss  Cahill,  timidly.  From 
34 


Ranson's   Folly 

behind  her  back  Ranson  shook  his  head  at  the 
post-trader  in  violent  pantomime.  "  She'd  better 
go  outside  and  wait,  hadn't  she,  Mr.  Cahill  ? "  he 
directed. 

As  he  was  bidden,  the  post-trader  raised  his 
head  and  nodded  toward  the  door.  The  on- 
slaught of  sudden  and  new  conditions  overwhelmed 
and  paralyzed  him. 

"  Father !  "  said  Miss  Cahill,  "  it  isn't  just  as 
you  think.  Mr.  Ranson  did  ask  me  to  marry  him 
— in  a  way —  At  least,  I  knew  what  he  meant. 
But  I  did  not  say — in  a  way — that  I  would  marry 
him.  I  mean  it  was  not  settled,  or  I  would  have 
told  you.  You  mustn't  think  I  would  have  left 
you  out  of  this — of  my  happiness,  you  who  have 
done  everything  to  make  me  happy." 

She  reproached  her  father  with  her  eyes  fast- 
ened on  his  face.  His  own  were  stern,  fixed,  and 
miserable.  "You  will  let  it  be,  won't  you, 
father  ?"  she  begged.  "It — it  means  so  much. 
I — can't  tell  you — "  She  threw  out  her  hand 
toward  Ranson  as  though  designating  a  superior 
being.  "  Why,  I  can't  tell  him.  But  if  you  are 
harsh  with  him  or  with  me  it  will  break  my  heart. 
For  as  I  love  you,  father,  I  love  him — and  it  has 
got  to  be.  It  must  be.  For  I  love  him  so.  I 
have  always  loved  him.  Father,"  she  whispered, 
"  I  love  him  so." 

85 


Ranson's  Folly 

Ranson,  humbly,  gratefully,  took  the  girl's 
hand  and  led  her  gently  to  the  veranda  and  closed 
the  door  upon  her.  Then  he  came  down  the 
room  and  regarded  his  prospective  father-in-law 
with  an  expression  of  amused  exasperation.  He 
thrust  his  hands  deep  into  the  pockets  of  his 
riding-breeches  and  nodded  his  head.  "  Well," 
he  exclaimed,  "  youVe  made  a  damned  pretty 
mess  of  it,  haven't  you  ?  " 

Cahill  had  sunk  heavily  into  a  chair  and  was 
staring  at  Ranson  with  the  stupid,  wondering 
gaze  of  a  dumb  animal  in  pain.  During  the 
moments  in  which  the  two  men  eyed  each  other 
Ranson's  smile  disappeared.  Cahill  raised  him- 
self slowly  as  though  with  a  great  effort. 

"  I  done  it,"  said  Cahill,  "  for  her.  I  done  it 
to  make  her  happy." 

"  That's  all  right,"  said  Ranson, briskly.  "She's 
going  to  be  happy.  We're  all  going  to  be  happy." 

"An'  all  I  did,"  Cahill  continued,  as  though 
unconscious  of  the  interruption,  "  was  to  disgrace 
her."  He  rose  suddenly  to  his  feet.  His  mental 
sufferings  were  so  keen  that  his  huge  body 
trembled.  He  recognized  how  truly  he  had 
made  "  a  mess  of  it."  He  saw  that  all  he  had 
hoped  to  do  for  his  daughter  by  crime  would 
have  been  done  for  her  by  this  marriage  with 
Ranson,  which  would  have  made  her  a  "  lady," 

86 


Ranson's  Folly 

made  her  rich,  made  her  happy.  Had  it  not  been 
for  his  midnight  raids  she  would  have  been 
honored,  loved,  and  envied,  even  by  the  wife  of 
the  colonel  herself.  But  through  him  disgrace 
had  come  upon  her,  sorrow  and  trouble.  She 
would  not  be  known  as  the  daughter  of  Senator 
Ranson,  but  of  Cahill,  an  ex-member  of  the 
Whyo  gang,  a  highway  robber,  as  the  daughter 
of  a  thief  who  was  serving  his  time  in  State  prison. 
At  the  thought  Cahill  stepped  backward  un- 
steadily as  though  he  had  been  struck.  He  cried 
suddenly  aloud.  Then  his  hand  whipped  back 
to  his  revolver,  but  before  he  could  use  it  Ranson 
had  seized  his  wrist  with  both  hands.  The  two 
struggled  silently  and  fiercely.  The  fact  of  oppo- 
sition brought  back  to  Cahill  all  of  his  great 
strength. 

"  No,  you  don't!"  Ranson  muttered.  "Think 
of  your  daughter,  man.  Drop  it  !  " 

"  I  shall  do  it,"  Cahill  panted.  "  I  am  think- 
ing of  my  daughter.  It's  the  only  way  out.  Take 
your  hands  off  me — I  shall !  " 

With  his  knuckles  Ranson  bored  cruelly  into 
the  wounded  hand,  and  it  opened  and  the  gun 
dropped  from  it ;  but  as  it  did  so  it  went  off  with 
a  report  that  rang  through  the  building.  There 
was  an  instant  rush  of  feet  upon  the  steps  of  the 
veranda,  and  at  the  sound  the  two  men  sprang 

87 


Ranson's  Folly 

apart,  eyeing  each  other  sheepishly  like  two  dis- 
covered truants.  When  Sergeant  Clancey  and 
the  guard  pushed  through  the  door  Ranson  stood 
facing  it,  spinning  the  revolver  in  cowboy  fashion 
around  his  fourth  finger.  He  addressed  the  ser- 
geant in  a  tone  of  bitter  irony. 

"  Oh,  youVe  come  at  last,"  he  demanded. 
"Are  you  deaf?  Why  didn't  you  come  when  I 
called  ?  "  His  tone  showed  he  considered  he  had 
just  cause  for  annoyance. 

"  The  gun  brought  me,  I — "  began  Clancey. 

"  Yes,  I  hoped  it  might.  That's  why  I  fired 
it,"  snapped  Ranson.  "  I  want  two  whiskey-and- 
sodas.  Quick  now  1 " 

"  Two — "  gasped  Clancey. 

"  Whiskey-and-sodas.  See  how  fast  one  of  you 
can  chase  over  to  the  club  and  get  'em.  And 
next  time  I  want  a  drink  don't  make  me  wake 
the  entire  garrison." 

As  the  soldiers  retreated  Ranson  discovered 
Miss  Cahill's  white  face  beyond  them.  He  ran 
and  held  the  door  open  by  a  few  inches. 

"  It's  all  right,"  he  whispered,  reassuringly. 
"  He's  nearly  persuaded.  Wait  just  a  minute 
longer  and  he'll  be  giving  us  his  blessing." 

"  But  the  pistol-shot  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  was  just  calling  the  guard.  The  electric 
bell's  broken,  and  your  father  wanted  a  drink. 

88 


RansorTs  Folly 

That's  a  good  sign,  isn't  it  ?  Shows  he's  friendly. 
What  kind  did  you  say  you  wanted,  Mr.  Cahiii — 
Scotch  was  it,  or  rye  f  "  Ranson  glanced  back  v+ 
the  sombre,  silent  figure  of  Cahill,  and  then  again 
opened  the  door  sufficiently  for  him  to  stick  out 
his  head.  "  Sergeant,"  he  called,  "  make  them 
both  Scotch — long  ones." 

He  shut  the  door  and  turned  upon  the  post- 
trader.  "  Now,  then,  father-in-law,"  he  said, 
briskly,  cc  youVe  got  to  cut  and  run,  and  you  ve 
got  to  run  quick.  We'll  tell  'em  you're  going  to 
Fort  Worth  to  buy  the  engagement  ring,  because 
I  can't,  being  under  arrest.  But  you  go  to  Dun- 
can City  instead,  and  from  there  take  the  cars 
,  » 

"  Run  away  !  "  Cahill  repeated,  dazedly.  "  But 
you'll  be  court-martialled." 

"  There  won't  be  any  court-martial ! " 

Cahill  glanced  around  the  room  quickly.  ce  I 
see,"  he  cried.  In  his  eagerness  he  was  almost 
smiling.  "  I'm  to  leave  a  confession  and  give  it 
to  you." 

"  Confession  !  What  rot !  "  cried  Ranson, 
"  They  can't  prove  anything  against  me.  Every- 
one knows  by  now  that  there  were  two  men  on  the 
trail,  but  they  don't  know  who  the  other  man  was, 
and  no  one  ever  must  know — especially  Mary." 

Cahill  struck  the  table  with  his  fist.  "  I  won't 
89 


Ranson's  Folly 

stand  for  it ! "  he  cried.  cc  I  got  you  into  this  and 
I'm  goin' " 

"  Yes,  going  to  jail/'  retorted  Ranson.  "  You'll 
look  nice  behind  the  bars,  won't  you  ?  Your 
daughter  will  be  proud  of  you  in  a  striped  suit. 
Don't  talk  nonsense.  You're  going  to  run  and 
hide  some  place,  somewhere,  where  Mary  and  I 
can  come  and  pay  you  a  visit.  Say — Canada. 
No,  not  Canada.  I'd  rather  visit  you  in  jail  than 
in  a  Montreal  hotel.  Say  Tangier,  or  Buenos 
Ayres,  or  Paris.  Yes,  Paris  is  safe  enough — and 
so  amusing." 

Cahill  seated  himself  heavily.  cc  I  trapped  you 
into  this  fix,  Mr.  Ranson,"  he  said, cc  you  know  I 
did,  and  now  I  mean  to  get  you  out  of  it.  I  ain't 
going  to  leave  the  man  my  Mame  wants  to  marry 
with  a  cloud  on  him.  I  ain't  going  to  let  her 
husband  be  jailed." 

Ranson  had  run  to  his  desk  and  from  a  drawer 
drew  forth  a  roll  of  bills.  He  advanced  with  them 
in  his  hand. 

"Yes,  Paris  is  certainly  the  place,"  he  said. 
"  Here's  three  hundred  dollars.  I'll  cable  you 
the  rest.  You've  never  been  to  Paris,  have  you  ? 
It's  full  of  beautiful  sights — Henry's  American 
Bar,  for  instance,  and  the  courtyard  of  the  Grand 
Hotel,  and  Maxim's.  All  good  Americans  go  to 
Paris  when  they  die  and  all  the  bad  ones  while 

90 


Ranson's  Folly 

they  are  alive.  You'll  find  lots  of  both  kinds, 
and  you'll  sit  all  day  on  the  sidewalk  and  drink 
Bock  and  listen  to  Hungarian  bands.  And  Mary 
and  I  will  join  you  there  and  take  you  driving  in 
the  Bois.  Now,  you  start  at  once.  I'll  tell  her 
you've  gone  to  New  York  to  talk  it  over  with 
father,  and  buy  the  ring.  Then  I'll  say  you've 
gone  on  to  Paris  to  rent  us  apartments  for  the 
honeymoon.  I'll  explain  it  somehow.  That's 
better  than  going  to  jail,  isn't  it,  and  making  us 
bow  our  heads  in  grief?  " 

Cahill,  in  his  turn,  approached  the  desk  and, 
seating  himself  before  it,  began  writing  rapidly. 

«  What  is  it  ?  "  asked  Ranson. 

"  A  confession,"  said  Cahill,  his  pen  scratching. 

<c  I  won't  take  it,"  Hanson  said,  cc  and  I  won't 


use  it." 


"  I  ain't  going  to  give  it  to  you,"  said  Cahil!, 
over  his  shoulder.  "  I  know  better  than  that. 
But  I  don't  go  to  Paris  unless  I  leave  a  confession 
behind  me.  Call  in  the  guard,"  he  commanded  j 
"  I  want  two  witnesses." 

"  I'll  see  you  hanged  first,"  said  Ranson. 

Cahill  crossed  the  room  to  the  door  and,  throw- 
ing it  open,  called,  "  Corporal  of  the  guard  I  " 

As  he  spoke.  Captain  Carr  and  Mrs.  Bolland, 
accompanied  by  Miss  Post  and  her  aunt,  were 
crossing  the  parade-ground.  For  a  moment  the 


Ranson's  Folly 

post-trader  surveyed  them  doubtfully,  and  then, 
stepping  out  upon  the  veranda,  beckoned  to  them. 

"  Here's  a  paper  I've  signed,  captain,"  he  said  ; 
"I  wish  you'd  witness  my  signature.  It's  my 
testimony  for  the  court-martial." 

"  Then  someone  else  had  better  sign  it,"  said 
Carr.  "  Might  look  prejudiced  if  I  did."  He 
turned  to  the  ladies.  cc  These  ladies  are  coming 
in  to  see  Ranson  now.  They'll  witness  it." 

Miss  Cahill,  from  the  other  end  of  the  veranda, 
and  the  visitors  entered  the  room  together. 

"  Mrs.  Truesdale  !  "  cried  Ranson.  "  You  are 
pouring  coals  of  fire  upon  my  head.  And  Miss 
Post !  Indeed,  this  is  too  much  honor.  After 
the  way  I  threatened  and  tried  to  frighten  you 
last  night  I  expected  you  to  hang  me,  at  least, 
instead  of  which  you  have,  I  trust,  come  to  tea." 

"Nothing  of  the  sort,"  said  Mrs.  Bolland, 
sternly.  "  These  ladies  insisted  on  my  bringing 
them  here  to  say  how  sorry  they  are  that  they 
talked  so  much  and  got  you  into  this  trouble. 
Understand,  Mr.  Ranson,"  the  colonel's  wife 
added,  with  dignity,  "  that  I  am  not  here  officially 
as  Mrs.  Bolland,  but  as  a  friend  of  these  ladies." 

c<  You  are  welcome  in  whatever  form  you  take, 
Mrs.  Bolland,"  cried  Ranson,  "  and,  believe  me, 
I  am  in  no  trouble — no  trouble,  I  assure  you.  In 
fact,  I  am  quite  the  most  contented  man  in  the 

92 


Ranson's   Folly 

world.  Mrs.  Holland,  in  spite  of  the  cloud,  the 
temporary  cloud  which  rests  upon  my  fair  name, 
I  take  great  pride  in  announcing  to  you  that  this 
young  lady  has  done  me  the  honor  to  consent  to 
become  my  wife.  Her  father,  a  very  old  and  dear 
friend,  has  given  his  consent.  And  I  take  this 
occasion  to  tell  you  of  my  good  fortune,  both  in 
your  official  capacity  and  as  my  friend." 

There  was  a  chorus  of  exclamations  and  con- 
gratulations in  which  Mrs.  Bolland  showed  her- 
self to  be  a  true  wife  and  a  social  diplomatist.  In 
the  post-trader's  daughter  she  instantly  recognized 
the  heiress  to  the  Ranson  millions,  and  the  daugh- 
ter of  a  Senator  who  also  was  the  chairman  of 
the  Senate  Committee  on  Brevets  and  Promotions. 
She  fell  upon  Miss  Cahill's  shoulder  and  kissed 
her  on  both  cheeks.  Turning  eagerly  upon  Mrs. 
Truesdale,  she  said,  cc  Alice,  you  can  understand 
how  I  feel  when  I  tell  you  that  this  child  has 
always  been  to  me  like  one  of  my  own." 

Carr  took  Ranson's  hand  and  wrung  it.  Ser- 
geant Clancey  grew  purple  with  pleasure  and  stole 
back  to  the  veranda,  where  he  whispered  joyfully 
to  a  sentry.  In  another  moment  a  passing  pri- 
vate was  seen  racing  delightedly  toward  the  base- 
ball field. 

At  the  same  moment  Lieutenants  Crosby  and 
Curtis  and  the  regimental  adjutant  crossed  the 

93 


Ranson's  Folly 

parade  ground  from  the  colonel's  quarters  and  ran 
up  the  steps  of  Ranson's  hut.  The  expressions 
of  good-will,  of  smiling  embarrassment  and  gen- 
eral satisfaction  which  Lieutenant  Crosby  observed 
on  the  countenances  of  those  present  seemed  to 
give  him  a  momentary  check. 

"  Oh/'  he  exclaimed,  disappointedly,  cc  some- 
one has  told  you  !  " 

Ranson  laughed  and  took  the  hand  which 
Crosby  held  doubtfully  toward  him.  "  No  one 
has  told  me,"  he  said.  "  I've  been  telling  them." 

cc  Then  you  haven't  heard  ? "  Crosby  cried, 
delightedly.  "  That's  good.  I  begged  to  be  the 
first  to  let  you  know,  because  I  felt  so  badly  at 
having  doubted  you.  You  must  let  me  congrat- 
ulate you.  You  are  free." 

"  Free  ?  "  smiled  Ranson. 

"  Yes,  relieved  from  arrest,"  Crosby  cried,  joy- 
fully. He  turned  and  took  Ranson's  sword 
from  the  hands  of  the  adjutant.  "  And  the 
colonel's  let  your  troop  have  the  band  to  give 
you  a  serenade." 

But  Ranson's  face  showed  no  sign  of  satisfaction. 

"Wait!"  he  cried.  "Why  am  I  relieved 
from  arrest  ? " 

.  "  Why  ?     Because  the  other  fellow  has   con- 
fessed." 

Ranson   placed  himself  suddenly  in    front  of 
94 


Ranson's  Folly- 
Mary  Cahill  as  though  to  shield  her.  His  eyes 
stole  stealthily  towards  Cahill's  confession.  Still 
unread  and  still  unsigned,  it  lay  unopened  upon 
the  table.  Cahill  was  gazing  upon  Ranson  in 
blank  bewilderment. 

Captain  Carr  gasped  a  sigh  of  relief  that  was  far 
from  complimentary  to  his  client. 

"  Who  confessed  ?  "  he  cried. 

cc  c  Pop '  Henderson/'  said  Crosby. 

"'Pop'  Henderson!"  shouted  Cahill.  Un- 
mindful of  his  wound,  he  struck  the  table  savage- 
ly with  his  fist.  For  the  first  time  in  the  knowl- 
edge of  the  post  he  exhibited  emotion.  " c  Pop* 
Henderson,  by  the  eternal !  "  he  cried.  cc  And  I 
never  guessed  it !  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Crosby,  eagerly.  "  Abe  Fisher  was 
in  it.  Henderson  persuaded  the  paymaster  to 
make  the  trip  alone  with  him.  Then  he  dressed 
up  Fisher  to  represent  the  Red  Rider  and  sent 
him  on  ahead  to  hold  him  up.  They  were  to 
share  the  money  afterward.  But  Fisher  fired  on 
c  Pop  '  to  kill,  so  as  to  have  it  all,  and  '  Pop's ' 
trying  to  get  even.  And  what  with  wanting  to 
hurt  Fisher,  and  thinking  he  is  going  to  die,  and 
not  wishing  to  see  you  hanged,  he's  told  the  truth. 
We  wired  Kiowa  early  this  morning  and  arrested 
Fisher.  They've  found  the  money,  and  he  has 
confessed,  too." 

95 


Ranson's   Folly 

cc  But  the  poncho  and  the  red  kerchief  ?  "  pro- 
tested Carr.  "  And  he  had  no  stirrups  !  " 

"  Oh,  Fisher  had  the  make-up  all  right/' 
laughed  Crosby ;  cc  Henderson  says  Fisher's  the 
c  only,  original '  Red  Rider.  And  as  for  the 
stirrups,  I'm  afraid  that's  my  fault.  I  asked  the 
colonel  if  the  man  wasn't  riding  without  stirrups, 
and  I  guess  the  wish  was  father  to  the  fact.  He 
only  imagined  he  hadn't  seen  any  stirrups.  The 
colonel  was  rattled.  So,  old  man,"  he  added, 
turning  to  Ranson,  "  here's  your  sword  again, 
and  God  bless  you." 

Already  the  post  had  learned  the  news  from  the 
band  and  the  verandas  of  the  enlisted  men 
overflowed  with  delighted  troopers.  From  the 
stables  and  the  ball  field  came  the  sound  of  hur- 
rying feet,  and  a  tumult  of  cheers  and  cowboy 
yells.  Across  the  parade-ground  the  regimental 
band  bore  down  upon  Ranson's  hut,  proclaiming 
to  the  garrison  that  there  would  be  a  hot  time  in 
the  old  town  that  night.  But  Sergeant  Clancey 
ran  to  meet  the  bandmaster,  and  shouted  in  his 
ear.  "  He's  going  to  marry  Mary  Cahill,"  he 
cried.  "  I  heard  him  tell  the  colonel's  wife. 
Play  cjust  Because  She  Made  Them  Goo-goo 
Eyes/  " 

"  Like  hell !  "  cried  the  bandmaster,  indignantly, 
breaking  in  on  the  tune  with  his  baton.  "  I  know 

96 


Ranson's   Folly 

my  business  !  Now,  then,  men,"  he  commanded, 
<ccl'll  Leave  My  Happy  Home  for  You/" 

As  Mrs.  Bolland  dragged  Miss  Cahill  into 
view  of  the  assembled  troopers  Ranson  pulled 
his  father-in-law  into  a  far  corner  of  the  room. 
He  shook  the  written  confession  in  his  face. 

"  Now,  will  you  kindly  tell  me  what  that 
means  ?  "  he  demanded.  "  What  sort  of  a  gallery 
play  were  you  trying  to  make  ?  " 

Cahill  shifted  his  sombrero  guiltily.  "  I  was 
trying  to  get  you  out  of  the  hole,"  he  stammered. 
"  I — I  thought  you  done  it." 

"  You  thought  I  done  it !  " 

"  Sur*.     I  never  thought  nothing  else." 

"  Then  why  do  you  say  here  that  you  did 
it?" 

"  Oh,  because,"  stammered  Cahill,  miserably, 
"  'cause  of  Mary,  'cause  she  wanted  to  marry  you 
— 'cause  you  were  going  to  marry  her." 

"  Wei) — but — what  good  were  you  going  to  do 
by  shooring  yourself  ?  " 

"Oh  then?"  Cahill  jerked  back  his  head  as 
though  casting  out  an  unpleasant  memory.  "  I 
thought  you'd  caught  me,  you,  too — between 
you  ! ' 

"  Caught  you  !     Then  you  did ?" 

"  No,  but  I  tried  to.  I  heard  your  plan,  and 
I  'Vd  follow  you  in  the  poncho  and  kerchief, 

97 


Ranson's   Folly 

meaning  to  hold  up  the  stage  first,  and  leave  it 
to  Crosby  and  Curtis  to  prove  you  did  it  But 
when  I  reached  the  coach  you  were  there  ahead 
of  me,  and  I  rode  away  and  put  in  my  time  at 
the  Indian  village.  I  never  saw  the  paymaster's 
cart,  never  heard  of  it  till  this  morning.  But  what 
with  Mame  missing  the  poncho  out  of  our  shop 
and  the  wound  in  my  hand  I  guessed  they'd  all 
soon  suspect  me.  I  saw  you  did.  So  I  thought 
I'd  just  confess  to  what  I  meant  to  do,  even  if  I 
didn't  do  it." 

Ranson  surveyed  his  father-in-law  with  a  de- 
lighted grin.  "  How  did  you  get  that  bullet-hole 
in  your  hand  ? "  he  asked. 

Cahill  laughed  shamefacedly.  "  I  hate  to  tell 
you  that,"  he  said.  "  I  got  it  just  as  I  said  I  did. 
My  new  gun  went  off  while  I  was  fooling  with  it, 
with  my  hand  over  the  muzzle.  And  me  the 
best  shot  in  the  Territory  !  But  when  I  heard  the 
paymaster  claimed  he  shot  the  Red  Rider  through 
the  palm  I  knew  no  one  would  believe  me  if  I 
told  the  truth.  So  I  lied." 

Ranson  glanced  down  at  the  written  confession, 
and  then  tore  it  slowly  into  pieces.  "And  you 
were  sure  I  robbed  thewstage,  and  yet  you  believed 
that  I'd  use  this  ?  What  sort  of  a  son-in-law  do 
you  think  you've  got  ?  " 

"  You  thought  7  robbed  the  stage,  didn't  you  ?  " 
98 


Ranson's  Folly 

"Yes." 

"And  you  were  going  to  stand  for  robbing  it 
yourself,  weren't  you  ?  Well,  that's  the  sort  of 
son-in-law  I  Ve  got !  " 

The  two  men  held  out  their  hands  at  the  same 
instant. 

Mary  Cahill,  her  face  glowing  with  pride  and 
besieged  with  blushes,  came  toward  them  from 
the  veranda.  She  was  laughing  and  radiant,  but 
she  turned  her  eyes  on  Ranson  with  a  look  of 
tender  reproach. 

"  Why  did  you  desert  me  ?  "  she  said.  "  It 
was  awful.  They  are  calling  you  now.  They 
are  playing  c  The  Conquering  Hero/  ' 

"  Mr.  Cahill,"  commanded  Ranson,  "  go  out 
there  and  make  a  speech."  He  turned  to  Mary 
Cahill  and  lifted  one  of  her  hands  in  both  of  his. 
"Well,  I  am  the  conquering  hero,"  he  said. 
"  I  Ve  won  the  only  thing  worth  winning,  dearest," 
he  whispered ;  "  we'll  run  away  from  them  in  a 
minute,  and  we'll  ride  to  the  waterfall  and  the 
Lover's  Leap."  He  looked  down  at  her  wist- 
fully. "  Do  you  remember  ?  " 

Mary  Cahill  raised  her  head  and  smiled.  He 
leaned  toward  her  breathlessly. 

"  Why,  did  it  mean  that  to  you,  too  ?  "  he 
asked. 

She  smiled  up  at  him  in  assent. 
99 


cc 


Ranson's   Folly 

But  I  didn't  say  anything,  did  I  ?  "  whis- 
pered Ranson.  "  I  hardly  knew  you  then.  But 
I  knew  that  day  that  I — that  I  would  marry 
you  or  nobody  else.  And  did  you  think — that 
you " 

"  Yes,"  Mary  Cahill  whispered. 

He  bent  his  head  and  touched  her  hand  with 
his  lips. 

"  Then  we'll  go  back  this  morning  to  the 
waterfall,"  he  said,  "  and  tell  it  that  it's  all  come 
right.  And  now,  we'll  bow  to  those  crazy  people 
out  there,  those  make-believe  dream-people,  who 
don't  know  that  there  is  nothing  real  in  this  world 
but  just  you  and  me,  and  that  we  love  each 
other." 

A  dishevelled  orderly  bearing  a  tray  with  two 
glasses  confronted  Ranson  at  the  door.  cc  Here's 
the  Scotch  and  sodas,  lieutenant,"  he  panted.  "  I 
couldn't  get  'em  any  sooner.  The  men  wanted 
to  take  'em  off  me — to  drink  Miss  Cahill's 
health." 

"  So  they  shall,"  said  Ranson.  "  Tell  them  to 
drink  the  canteen  dry  and  charge  it  to  me. 
What's  a  little  thing  like  the  regulations  between 
friends?  They  have  taught  me  my  manners. 
Mr.  Cahill,"  he  called. 

The  post-trader  returned  from  the  veranda. 

Ranson  solemnly  handed  him  a  glass  and  raised 

IOO 


Ranson's  Folly 

the  other  in  the  air.  "  Here's  hoping  that  the 
Red  Rider  rides  on  his  raids  no  more,"  he  said  ; 
"  and  to  the  future  Mrs.  Ranson — to  Mary 
Cahill,  God  bless  her !  " 

He  shattered  the  empty  glass  in  the  grate  and 
took  Cahill's  hand. 

"  Father-in-law,"  said  Ranson,  "  let's  promise 
each  other  to  lead  a  new  and  a  better  life." 


THE    BAR    SINISTER 


he  Bar  Sinister 


PART   I 

THE  Master  was  walking  most  unsteady,  his 
legs  tripping  each  other.     After  the  fifth 
or  sixth  round,  my  legs  often  go  the  same  way. 

But  even  when  the  Master's  legs  bend  and 
twist  a  bit,  you  mustn't  think  he  can't  reach  you. 
Indeed,  that  is  the  time  he  kicks  most  frequent. 
So  I  kept  behind  him  in  the  shadow,  or  ran  in 
the  middle  of  the  street.  He  stopped  at  many 
public-houses  with  swinging  doors,  those  doors 
that  are  cut  so  high  from  the  sidewalk  that  you 
can  look  in  under  them,  and  see  if  the  Master  is 
inside.  At  night  when  I  peep  beneath  them  the 
man  at  the  counter  will  see  me  first  and  say, 
"Here's  the  Kid,  Jerry,  come  to  take  you  home. 
Get  a  move  on  you,"  and  the  Master  will  stumble 
out  and  follow  me.  It's  lucky  for  us  I'm  so 
white,  for  no  matter  how  dark  the  night,  he  can 
always  see  me  ahead,  just  out  of  reach  of  his  boot. 
At  night  the  Master  certainly  does  see  most 
amazing.  Sometimes  he  sees  two  or  four  of  me, 
and  walks  in  a  circle,  so  that  I  have  to  take  him 
by  the  leg  of  his  trousers  and  lead  him  into  the 


The  Bar  Sinister 

right  road.  One  night,  when  he  was  very  nasty- 
tempered  and  I  was  coaxing  him  along,  two  men 
passed  us  and  one  of  them  says,  "  Look  at  that 
brute  !  "  and  the  other  asks  "  Which  ?  "  and  they 
both  laugh.  The  Master,  he  cursed  them  good 
and  proper. 

This  night,  whenever  we  stopped  at  a  public- 
house,  the  Master's  pals  left  it  and  went  on  with 
us  to  the  next.  They  spoke  quite  civil  to  me, 
and  when  the  Master  tried  a  flying  kick,  they 
gives  him  a  shove.  "  Do  you  want  we  should 
lose  our  money  ?  "  says  the  pals. 

I  had  had  nothing  to  eat  for  a  day  and  a  night, 
and  just  before  we  set  out  the  Master  gives  me  a 
wash  under  the  hydrant.  Whenever  I  am  locked 
up  until  all  the  slop-pans  in  our  alley  are  empty, 
and  made  to  take  a  bath,  and  the  Master's  pals 
speak  civil,  and  feel  my  ribs,  I  know  something 
is  going  to  happen.  And  that  night,  when  every 
time  they  see  a  policeman  under  a  lamp-post,  they 
dodged  across  the  street,  and  when  at  the  last  one 
of  them  picked  me  up  and  hid  me  under  his 
jacket,  I  began  to  tremble ;  for  I  knew  what  it 
meant.  It  meant  that  I  was  to  fight  again  for  the 
Master. 

I  don't  fight  because  I  like  it.  I  fight  because 
if  I  didn't  the  other  dog  would  find  my  throat, 
*nd  the  Master  would  lose  his  stakes,  and  I  would 

106 


The  Bar  Sinister 

be  very  sorry  for  him  and  ashamed.  Dogs  can 
pass  me  and  I  can  pass  dogs,  and  I'd  never  pick 
a  fight  with  none  of  them.  When  I  see  two  dogs 
standing  on  their  hind-legs  in  the  streets,  clawing 
each  other's  ears,  and  snapping  for  each  other's 
windpipes,  or  howling  and  swearing  and  rolling  in 
the  mud,  I  feel  sorry  they  should  act  so,  and 
pretend  not  to  notice.  If  he'd  let  me,  I'd  like 
to  pass  the  time  of  day  with  every  dog  I  meet. 
But  there's  something  about  me  that  no  nice  dog 
can  abide.  When  I  trot  up  to  nice  dogs,  nodding 
and  grinning,  to  make  friends,  they  always  tell 
me  to  be  off.  "  Go  to  the  devil !  "  they  bark  at 
me ;  <c  Get  out ! "  and  when  I  walk  away  they 
shout  "  mongrel,"  and  "  gutter-dog,"  and  some- 
times, after  my  back  is  turned,  they  rush  me.  I 
could  kill  most  of  them  with  three  shakes,  break- 
ing the  back-bone  of  the  little  ones,  and  squeezing 
the  throat  of  the  big  ones.  But  what's  the  good  ? 
They  are  nice  dogs  ;  that's  why  I  try  to  make  up 
to  them,  and  though  it's  not  for  them  to  say  it, 
I  am  a  street-dog,  and  if  I  try  to  push  into  the 
company  of  my  betters,  I  suppose  it's  their  right 
to  teach  me  my  place. 

Of  course,  they  don't  know  I'm  the  best  fight- 
ing bull-terrier  of  my  weight  in  Montreal.  That's 
why  it  wouldn't  be  right  for  me  to  take  no  notice 
of  what  they  shout.  They  don't  know  that  if  I 

107 


The  Bar  Sinister 

once  locked  my  jaws  on  them  I'd  carry  away 
whatever  I  touched.  The  night  I  fought  Kelley's 
White  Rat,  I  wouldn't  loosen  up  until  the  Master 
made  a  noose  in  my  leash  and  strangled  me,  and 
if  the  handlers  hadn't  thrown  red  pepper  down 
my  nose,  I  never  would  have  let  go  of  that  Ot- 
tawa dog.  I  don't  think  the  handlers  treated  me 
quite  right  that  time,  but  maybe  they  didn't 
know  the  Ottawa  dog  was  dead.  I  did. 

I  learned  my  fighting  from  my  mother  when  I 
was  very  young.  We  slept  in  a  lumber-yard  on 
the  river-front,  and  by  day  hunted  for  food  along 
the  wharves.  When  we  got  it,  the  other  tramp- 
dogs  would  try  to  take  it  off  us,  and  then  it  was 
wonderful  to  see  mother  fly  at  them,  and  drive 
them  away.  All  I  know  of  fighting  I  learned 
from  mother,  watching  her  picking  the  ash-heaps 
for  me  when  I  was  too  little  to  fight  for  myself. 
No  one  ever  was  so  good  to  me  as  mother. 
When  it  snowed  and  the  ice  was  in  the  St.  Law- 
rence she  used  to  hunt  alone,  and  bring  me  back 
new  bones,  and  she'd  sit  and  laugh  to  see  me 
trying  to  swallow  'em  whole.  I  was  just  a  puppy 
then,  my  teeth  was  falling  out.  When  I  was  able 
to  fight  we  kept  the  whole  river-range  to  ourselves, 
I  had  the  genuine  long,  Cf  punishing "  jaw,  so 
mother  said,  and  there  wasn't  a  man  or  a  dog 
that  dared  worry  us.  Those  were  happy  days, 

108 


The  Bar  Sinister 

those  were ;  and  we  lived  well,  share  and  share 
alike,  and  when  we  wanted  a  bit  of  fun,  we  chased 
the  fat  old  wharf-rats.  My !  how  they  would 
squeal ! 

Then  the  trouble  came.  It  was  no  trouble  to 
me.  I  was  too  young  to  care  then.  But  mother 
took  it  so  to  heart  that  she  grew  ailing,  and 
wouldn't  go  abroad  with  me  by  day.  It  was  the 
same  old  scandal  that  they're  always  bringing  up 
against  me.  I  was  so  young  then  that  I  didn't 
know.  I  couldn't  see  any  difference  between 
mother — and  other  mothers. 

But  one  day  a  pack  of  curs  we  drove  off 
snarled  back  some  new  names  at  her,  and  mother 
dropped  her  head  and  ran,  just  as  though  they  had 
whipped  us.  After  that  she  wouldn't  go  out  with 
me  except  in  the  dark,  and  one  day  she  went 
away  and  never  came  back,  and  though  I  hunted 
for  her  in  every  court  and  alley  and  back  street 
of  Montreal,  I  never  found  her. 

One  night,  a  month  after  mother  ran  away,  I 
asked  Guardian,  the  old  blind  mastiff,  whose 
Master  is  the  night-watchman  on  our  slip,  what 
it  all  meant.  And  he  told  me. 

"  Every  dog  in  Montreal  knows,"  he  says, 
"  except  you,  and  every  Master  knows.  So  I 
think  it's  time  you  knew." 

Then  he  tells  me  that  my  father,  who  had 
109 


The  Bar  Sinister 

treated  mother  so  bad,  was  a  great  and  noble 
gentleman  from  London.  "Your  father  had 
twenty-two  registered  ancestors,  had  your  father/' 
old  Guardian  says,  "and  in  him  was  the  best 
bull-terrier  blood  of  England,  the  most  ancientest, 
the  most  royal ;  the  winning  c  blue-ribbon  '  blood, 
that  breeds  champions.  He  had  sleepy  pink 
eyes,  and  thin  pink  lips,  and  he  was  as  white  all 
over  as  his  own  white  teeth,  and  under  his  white 
skin  you  could  see  his  muscles,  hard  and  smooth, 
like  the  links  of  a  steel  chain.  When  your  father 
stood  still,  and  tipped  his  nose  in  the  air,  it  was 
just  as  though  he  was  saying,  c  Oh,  yes,  you 
common  dogs  and  men,  you  may  well  stare.  It 
must  be  a  rare  treat  for  you  Colonials  to  see  a 
real  English  royalty.'  He  certainly  was  pleased 
with  hisself,  was  your  father.  He  looked  just  as 
proud  and  haughty  as  one  of  them  stone  dogs  in 
Victoria  Park — them  as  is  cut  out  of  white  marble. 
And  you're  like  him,"  says  the  old  mastiff — "  by 
that,  of  course,  meaning  you're  white,  same  as 
him.  That's  the  only  likeness.  But,  you  see, 
the  trouble  is,  Kid — well,  you  see,  Kid,  the  trouble 
is — your  mother " 

"  That  will  do,"  I  said,  for  I  understood  then 
without  his  telling  me,  and  I  got  up  and  walked 
away,  holding  my  head  and  tail  high  in  the  air. 

But  I  was,  oh,  so  miserable,  and  I  wanted  to 
no 


The  Bar  Sinister 

see  mother  that  very  minute,  and  tell  her  that  I 
didn't  care. 

Mother  is  what  I  am,  a  street-dog ;  there's  no 
royal  blood  in  mother's  veins,  nor  is  she  like  that 
father  of  mine,  nor — and  that's  the  worst — she's 
not  even  like  me.  For  while  I,  when  I'm  washed 
for  a  fight,  am  as  white  as  clean  snow,  she — and 
this  is  our  trouble,  she — my  mother,  is  a  black- 
and-tan. 

When  mother  hid  herself  from  me,  I  was 
twelve  months  old  and  able  to  take  care  of  my- 
self, and,  as  after  mother  left  me,  the  wharves 
were  never  the  same,  I  moved  uptown  and  met 
the  Master.  Before  he  came,  lots  of  other  men- 
folks  had  tried  to  make  up  to  me,  and  to  whistle 
me  home.  But  they  either  tried  patting  me  or 
coaxing  me  with  a  piece  of  meat ;  so  I  didn't  take 
to  'em.  But  one  day  the  Master  pulled  me  out 
of  a  street-fight  by  the  hind-legs,  and  kicked  me 
good. 

"  You  want  to  fight,  do  you  ?  "  says  he.  "  I'll 
give  you  all  the  fighting  you  want !  "  he  says,  and 
he  kicks  me  again.  So  I  knew  he  was  my  Mas- 
ter, and  I  followed  him  home.  Since  that  day 
I've  pulled  off  many  fights  for  him,  and  they've 
brought  dogs  from  all  over  the  province  to  have 
a  go  at  me,  but  up  to  that  night  nor,s,  un4er 
thirty  pounds,  had  ever  downed  me 

in 


The  Bar  Sinister 

But  that  night,  so  soon  as  they  carried  me  into 
the  ring,  I  saw  the  dog  was  over-weight,  and  that 
I  was  no  match  for  him.  It  was  asking  too  much 
of  a  puppy.  The  Master  should  have  known  I 
couldn't  do  it.  Not  that  I  mean  to  blame  the 
Master,  for  when  sober,  which  he  sometimes  was, 
though  not,  as  you  might  say,  his  habit,  he  was 
most  kind  to  me,  and  let  me  out  to  find  food,  if 
I  could  get  it,  and  only  kicked  me  when  I  didn't 
pick  him  up  at  night  and  lead  him  home. 

But  kicks  will  stiffen  the  muscles,  and  starving 
a  dog  so  as  to  get  him  ugly-tempered  for  a  fight 
may  make  him  nasty,  but  it's  weakening  to  his 
insides,  and  it  causes  the  legs  to  wabble. 

The  ring  was  in  a  hall,  back  of  a  public-house. 
There  was  a  red-hot  whitewashed  stove  in  one 
corner,  and  the  ring  in  the  other.  I  lay  in  the 
Master's  lap,  wrapped  in  my  blanket,  and,  spite 
of  the  stove,  shivering  awful;  but  I  always  shiver 
before  a  fight ;  I  can't  help  gettin'  excited.  While 
the  men-folks  were  a-flashing  their  money  and 
taking  their  last  drink  at  the  bar,  a  little  Irish 
groom  in  gaiters  came  up  to  me  and  give  me  the 
back  of  his  hand  to  smell,  and  scratched  me  be- 
hind the  ears. 

ce  You  poor  little  pup,"  says  he.  cc  You  haven't 
no  show,"  he  says.  "  That  brute  in  the  tap-room, 
he'll  eat  your  heart  out." 

112 


The  Bar  Sinister 

c<  That's  what  you  think,"  says  the  Master, 
snarling.  "  I'll  lay  you  a  quid  the  Kid  chews 
him  up." 

The  groom,  he  shook  his  head,  but  kept  look- 
ing at  me  so  sorry-like,  that  I  begun  to  get  a  bit  sad 
myself.  He  seemed  like  he  couldn't  bear  to  leave 
off  a-patting  of  me,  and  he  says,  speaking  low  just 
like  he  would  to  a  man-folk,  cc  Well,  good-luck 
to  you,  little  pup,"  which  I  thought  so  civil  of 
him,  that  I  reached  up  and  licked  his  hand.  I 
don't  do  that  to  many  men.  And  the  Master,  he 
knew  I  didn't,  and  took  on  dreadful. 

cc  What  'ave  you  got  on  the  back  of  your 
hand  ?  "  says  he,  jumping  up. 

cc  Soap ! "  says  the  groom,  quick  as  a  rat. 
cc  That's  more  than  you've  got  on  yours.  Do 
you  want  to  smell  of  it  ?  "  and  he  sticks  his  fist 
under  the  Master's  nose.  But  the  pals  pushed 
in  between  'em. 

"  He  tried  to  poison  the  Kid  1 "  shouts  the 
Master. 

"  Oh,  one  fight  at  a  time,"  says  the  referee. 
<c  Get  into  the  ring,  Jerry.  We're  waiting."  So 
we  went  into  the  ring. 

I  never  could  just  remember  what  did  happen 
in  that  ring.  He  give  me  no  time  to  spring.  He 
fell  on  me  like  a  horse.  I  couldn't  keep  my  feet 
against  him,  and  though,  as  I  saw,  he  could  get 


The  Bar  Sinister 

his  hold  when  he  liked,  he  wanted  to  chew  me 
over  a  bit  first  I  was  wondering  if  they'd  be 
able  to  pry  him  off  me,  when,  in  the  third  round, 
he  took  his  hold ;  and  I  began  to  drown,  just  as 
I  did  when  I  fell  into  the  river  off  the  Red  C  slip. 
He  closed  deeper  and  deeper,  on  my  throat,  and 
everything  went  black  and  red  and  bursting ;  and 
then,  when  I  were  sure  1  were  dead,  the  handlers 
pulled  him  off,  and  the  Master  give  me  a  kick 
that  brought  me  to.  But  I  couldn't  move  none, 
or  even  wink,  both  eyes  being  shut  with  lumps. 

"  He's  a  cur  !  "  yells  the  Master,  cc  a  sneaking, 
cowardly  cur.  He  lost  the  fight  for  me,"  says  he, 

<c  because  he's  a • cowardly  cur." 

And  he  kicks  me  again  in  the  lower  ribs,  so  that 
I  go  sliding  across  the  sawdust.  cc  There's  grati- 
tude fer  yer,"  yells  the  Master.  "  I've  fed  that 
dog,  and  nussed  that  dog,  and  housed  him  like  a 
prince ;  and  now  he  puts  his  tail  between  his  legs, 
and  sells  me  out,  he  does.  He's  a  coward;  Fve 
done  with  him,  I  am.  I'd  sell  him  for  a  pipeful 
of  tobacco."  He  picked  me  up  by  the  tail,  and 
swung  me  for  the  men-folks  to  see.  cc  Does  any 
gentleman  here  want  to  buy  a  dog,"  he  says,  cc  to 
make  into  sausage-meat  ?  "  he  says.  cc  That's  all 
he's  good  for." 

Then  I  heard  the  little  Irish  groom  say,  <c  I'D 
give  you  ten  bob  for  the  dog." 


The  Bar  Sinister 

And  another  voice  says,  "  Ah,  don't  you  do  it ; 
the  dog's  same  as  dead — mebby  he  is  dead." 

"  Ten  shillings  !  "  says  the  Master,  and  his 
voice  sobers  a  bit; cc  make  it  two  pounds,  and  he's 
yours." 

But  the  pals  rushed  in  again. 

<c  Don't  you  be  a  fool,  Jerry,"  they  say. 
"  You'll  be  sorry  for  this  when  you're  sober. 
The  Kid's  worth  a  fiver." 

One  of  my  eyes  was  not  so  swelled  up  as  the 
other,  and  as  I  hung  by  my  tail,  I  opened  it,  and 
saw  one  of  the  pals  take  the  groom  by  the 
shoulder. 

"  You  ought  to  give  'im  five  pounds  for  that 
dog,  mate,"  he  says  ;  "  that's  no  ordinary  dog. 
That  dog's  got  good  blood  in  him,  that  dog  has. 
Why,  his  father — that  very  dog's  father " 

I  thought  he  never  would  go  on.  He  waited 
like  he  wanted  to  be  sure  the  groom  was  listening. 

"  That  very  dog's  father,"  says  the  pal,  "  is 
Regent  Royal,  son  of  Champion  Regent  Monarch, 
champion  bull-terrier  of  England  for  four  years." 

I  was  sore,  and  torn,  and  chewed  most  awful, 
but  what  the  pal  said  sounded  so  fine  that  I  wanted 
to  wag  my  tail,  only  couldn't,  owing  to  my  hang- 
ing from  it. 

But  the  Master  calls  out,  "  Yes,  his  father  was 
Regent  Royal;  who's  saying  he  wasn't?  but  the 

"5 


The  Bar   Sinister 

pup's  a  cowardly  cur,  that's  what  his  pup  is,  and 
why — I'll  tell  you  why — because  his  mother  was 
a  black-and-tan  street-dog,  that's  why  !  " 

I  don't  see  how  I  get  the  strength,  but  some 
way  I  threw  myself  out  of  the  Master's  grip  and 
fell  at  his  feet,  and  turned  over  and  fastened  all 
my  teeth  in  his  ankle,  just  across  the  bone. 

When  I  woke,  after  the  pals  had  kicked  me  off 
him,  I  was  in  the  smoking-car  of  a  railroad-train, 
lying  in  the  lap  of  the  little  groom,  and  he  was 
rubbing  my  open  wounds  with  a  greasy,  yellow 
stuff,  exquisite  to  the  smell,  and  most  agreeable  to 
lick  off. 


PART   II 

"WELL — what's  your  name — Nolan?  Well, 
Nolan,  these  references  are  satisfactory ,"  said  the 
young  gentleman  my  new  Master  called  "  Mr. 
Wyndham,  sir."  "  I'll  take  you  on  as  second 
man.  You  can  begin  to-day." 

My  new  Master  shuffled  his  feet,  and  put  his 
finger  to  his  forehead.  "  Thank  you,  sir,"  says 
he.  Then  he  choked  like  he  had  swallowed  a 
fish-bone.  "  I  have  a  little  dawg,  sir,"  says  he. 

"You  can't  keep  him,"  says  "Mr.  Wyndham, 
sir,"  very  short. 

"  'Es  only  a  puppy,  sir,"  says  my  new  Master ; 
<c  *e  wouldn't  go  outside  the  stables,  sir." 

"It's  not  that,"  says  "Mr.  Wyndham,  sir;" 
<c  I  have  a  large  kennel  of  very  fine  dogs  ;  they're 
the  best  of  their  breed  in  America.  I  don't  allow 
strange  dogs  on  the  premises." 

The  Master  shakes  his  head,  and  motions  me 
with  his  cap,  and  I  crept  out  from  behind  the 
door.  "I'm  sorry,  sir,"  says  the  Master.  "Then 
I  can't  take  the  place.  I  can't  get  along  without 
the  dog,  sir." 

117 


The  Bar  Sinister 

"  Mr.  Wyndham,  sir,"  looked  at  me  that  fierce 
that  I  guessed  he  was  going  to  whip  me,  so  I 
turned  over  on  my  back  and  begged  with  my  legs 
and  tail. 

"  Why,  you  beat  him  !  "  says  cc  Mr.  Wyndham, 
sir,"  very  stern. 

"No  fear ! "  the  Master  says,  getting  very  red. 
"  The  party  I  bought  him  off  taught  him  that. 
He  never  learnt  that  from  me  ! "  He  picked  me 
up  in  his  arms,  and  to  show  "  Mr.  Wyndham, 
sir,"  how  well  I  loved  the  Master,  I  bit  his  chin 
and  hands. 

"  Mr.  Wyndham,  sir,"  turned  over  the  letters 
the  Master  had  given  him.  "Well,  these  ref- 
erences certainly  are  very  strong,"  he  says.  "  I 
guess  I'll  let  the  dog  stay  this  time.  Only  see 
you  keep  him  away  from  the  kennels — or  you'll 
both  go." 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  says  the  Master,  grinning 
like  a  cat  when  she's  safe  behind  the  area-railing. 

"  He's  not  a  bad  bull-terrier,"  says  "  Mr. 
Wyndham,  sir,"  feeling  my  head.  "  Not  that  I 
know  much  about  the  smooth-coated  breeds.  My 
dogs  are  St.  Bernards."  He  stopped -patting  me 
and  held  up  my  nose.  "  What's  the  matter  with 
his  ears  ?  "  he  says.  "  They're  chewed  to  pieces. 
Is  this  a  fighting  dog  ?  "  he  asks,  quick  and  rough- 
like. 

118 


The  Bar  Sinister 

I  could  have  laughed.  If  he  hadn't  been 
holding  my  nose,  I  certainly  would  have  had  a 
good  grin  at  him.  Me,  the  best  under  thirty 
pounds  in  the  Province  of  Quebec,  and  him  ask- 
ing if  I  was  a  fighting  dog !  I  ran  to  the  Master 
arid  hung  down  my  head  modest-like,  waiting  for 
him  to  tell  my  list  of  battles,  but  the  Master  he 
coughs  in  his  cap  most  painful.  "Fightin*  dog, 
sir,"  he  cries.  cc  Lor*  bless  you,  sir,  the  Kid 
don*t  know  the  word.  'Es  just  a  puppy,  sir, 
same  as  you  see;  a  pet  dog,  so  to  speak.  'Es  a 
regular  old  lady's  kp-dog,  the  Kid  is." 

"  Well,  you  keep  him  away  from  my  St.  Ber- 
nards," says  "  Mr.  Wyndham,  sir,"  "  or  they 
might  make  a  mouthful  of  him." 

"  Yes,  sir,  that  they  might,"  says  the  Master. 
But  when  we  gets  outside  he  slaps  his  knee  and 
laughs  inside  hisself,  and  winks  at  me  most 
sociable. 

The  Master's  new  home  was  in  the  country,  in 
a  province  they  called  Long  Island.  There  was 
a  high  stone  wall  about  his  home  with  big  iron 
'gates  to  it,  same  as  Godfrey's  brewery ;  and  there 
was  a  house  with  five  red  roofs,  and  the  stables, 
where  I  lived,  was  cleaner  than  the  aerated  bakery- 
shop,  and  then  there  was  the  kennels,  but  they 
was  like  nothing  else  in  this  world  that  ever  I  see* 
For  the  first  days  I  couldn't  sleep  of  nights  for 

119 


The  Bar  Sinister 

fear  someone  would  catch  me  lying  in  such  a 
cleaned-up  place,  and  would  chase  me  out  of  it^ 
and  when  I  did  fall  to  sleep  I'd  dream  I  was  back 
in  the  old  Master's  attic,  shivering  under  the 
rusty  stove,  which  never  had  no  coals  in  it,  with 
the  Master  flat  on  his  back  on  the  cold  floor  with 
his  clothes  on.  And  I'd  wake  up,  scared  and 
whimpering,  and  find  myself  on  the  new  Master's 
cot  with  his  hand  on  the  quilt  beside  me;  and  I'd 
see  the  glow  of  the  big  stove,  and  hear  the  high- 
quality  horses  below-stairs  stamping  in  their  straw- 
lined  boxes,  and  I'd  snoop  the  sweet  smell  of  hay 
and  harness-soap,  and  go  to  sleep  again. 

The  stables  was  my  jail,  so  the  Master  said, 
but  I  don't  ask  no  better  home  than  that  jail. 

cc  Now,  Kid,"  says  he,  sitting  on  the  top  of  a 
bucket  upside  down,  cc  you've  got  to  understand 
this.  When  I  whistle  it  means  you're  not  to  go  out 
of  this  'ere  yard.  These  stables  is  your  jail.  And 
if  you  leave  'em  I'll  have  to  leave  'em,  too,  and 
over  the  seas,  in  the  County  Mayo,  an  old  mother 
will  'ave  to  leave  her  bit  of  a  cottage.  For  two 
pounds  I  must  be  sending  her  every  month,  or 
she'll  have  naught  to  eat,  nor  no  thatch  over  'er 
head  ;  so,  I  can't  lose  my  place,  Kid,  an'  see  you 
don't  lose  it  for  me.  You  must  keep  away  from 
the  kennels,"  says  he ;  "  they're  not  for  the  likes 
of  you.  The  kennels  are  for  the  quality.  I 

120 


The  Bar  Sinister 

wouldn't  take  a  litter  of  them  woolly  dogs  for  one 
wag  of  your  tail,  Kid,  but  for  all  that  they  are 
your  betters,  same  as  the  gentry  up  in  the  big 
house  are  mv  betters.  I  know  my  place  and  keep 
away  from  the  gentry,  and  you  keep  away  from 
the  Champions/' 

So  I  never  goes  out  of  the  stables.  All  day  I 
just  lay  in  the  sun  on  the  stone  flags,  licking  my 
jaws,  and  watching  the  grooms  wash  down  the 
carriages,  and  the  only  care  I  had  was  to  see  they 
didn't  get  gay  and  turn  the  hose  on  me.  There 
wasn't  even  a  single  rat  to  plague  me.  Such 
stables  I  never  did  see. 

cc  Nolan,"  says  the  head-groom,  <c  some  day 
that  dog  of  yours  will  give  you  the  slip.  Yon 
can't  keep  a  street-dog  tied  up  all  his  life.  It*s 
against  his  natur'."  The  head-groom  is  a  nice 
old  gentleman,  but  he  doesn't  know  everything. 
Just  as  though  I'd  been  a  street-dog  because  I 
liked  it.  As  if  I'd  rather  poke  for  my  vittles  in  ash- 
heaps  than  have  'em  handed  me  in  a  wash-basin, 
and  would  sooner  bite  and  fight  than  be  polite 
and  sociable.  If  I'd  had  mother  there  I  couldn't 
have  asked  for  nothing  more.  But  I'd  think  of 
her  snooping  in  the  gutters,  or  freezing  of  nights 
under  the  bridges,  or,  what's  worse  of  all,  running 
through  the  hot  streets  with  her  tongue  down,  so 
wild  and  crazy  for  a  drink,  that  the  people  would 

121 


The  Bar  Sinister 

shout  "  mad  dog  "  at  her,  and  stone  her.  Water's 
so  good,  that  I  don't  blame  the  men-folks  for 
locking  it  up  inside  their  houses,  but  when  the 
hot  days  come,  I  think  they  might  remember  that 
those  are  the  dog-days  and  leave  a  little  water 
outside  in  a  trough,  like  they  do  for  the  horses. 
Then  we  wouldn't  go  mad,  and  the  policemen 
wouldn't  shoot  us.  I  had  so  much  of  everything 
I  wanted  that  it  made  me  think  a  lot  of  the  days 
when  I  hadn't  nothing,  and  if  I  could  have  given 
what  I  had  to  mother,  as  she  used  to  share  with 
me,  I'd  have  been  the  happiest  dog  in  the  land. 
Not  that  I  wasn't  happy  then,  and  most  grateful 
to  the  Master,  too,  and  if  I'd  only  minded  him, 
the  trouble  wouldn't  have  come  again. 

But  one  day  the  coachman  says  that  the  little 
lady  they  called  Miss  Dorothy  had  come  back 
from  school,  and  that  same  morning  she  runs  over 
to  the  stables  to  pat  her  ponies,  and  she  sees  me. 

"  Oh,  what  a  nice  little,  white  little  dog,"  said 
she ;  cc  whose  little  dog  are  you  ?  "  says  she. 

cc  That's  my  dog,  miss,"  says  the  Master.  <c  'Is 
name  is  Kid,"  and  I  ran  up  to  her  most  polite, 
and  licks  her  fingers,  for  I  never  see  so  pretty 
and  kind  a  lady. 

<c  You  must  come  with  me  and  call  on  my  new 
puppies,"  says  she,  picking  me  up  in  her  arms 
and  starting  off  with  me. 

122 


The  Bar  Sinister 

"Oh,  but  please,  Miss,"  cries  Nolan,  "  Mn 
Wyndham  give  orders  that  the  Kid's  not  to  go 
to  the  kennels/' 

"That'll  be  all  right,"  says  the  little  lady; 
"  they're  my  kennels  too.  And  the  puppies  will 
like  to  play  with  him." 

You  wouldn't  believe  me  if  I  was  to  tell  you  of 
the  style  of  them  quality-dogs.  If  I  hadn't  seen 
it  myself  I  wouldn't  have  believed  it  neither. 
The  Viceroy  of  Canada  don't  live  no  better. 
There  was  forty  of  them,  but  each  one  had  his 
own  house  and  a  yard — most  exclusive — and  a  cot 
and  a  drinking-basin  all  to  hisself.  They  had 
servants  standing  'round  waiting  to  feed  'em  when 
they  was  hungry,  and  valets  to  wash  "em ;  and 
they  had  their  hair  combed  and  brushed  like  the 
grooms  must  when  they  go  out  on  the  box. 
Even  the  puppies  had  overcoats  with  their  names 
on  *em  in  blue  letters,  and  the  name  of  each  of 
those  they  called  champions  was  painted  up  fine 
over  his  front  door  just  like  it  was  a  public-house 
or  a  veterinary 's.  They  were  the  biggest  St.  Ber- 
nards 1  ever  did  see.  I  could  have  walked  under 
them  if  they'd  have  let  me.  But  they  were  very 
proud  and  haughty  dogs,  and  looked  only  once 
at  me,  and  then  sniffed  in  the  air.  The  little 
lady's  own  dog  was  an  old  gentleman  bull-dog, 
He'd  come  along  with  us,  and  when  he  notices 

123 


The  Bar  Sinister 

how  taken  aback  I  was  with  all  I  see,  Pe  turned 
quite  kind  and  affable  and  showed  me  about. 

"Jimmy  Jocks,"  Miss  Dorothy  called  him3 
but,  owing  to  his  weight,  he  walked  most  dignified 
and  slow,  waddling  like  a  duck  as  you  might  say, 
and  looked  much  too  proud  and  handsome  for 
such  a  silly  name. 

"  That's  the  runway,  and  that's  the  Tnophy 
House,"  says  he  to  me,  cc  and  that  over  there  is 
the  hospital,  where  you  have  to  go  if  you  get  dis- 
temper, and  the  vet.  gives  you  beastly  medicine." 

"  And  which  of  these  is  your  'ouse,  sir  ? "  asks 
I,  wishing  to  be  respectful.  But  he  looked  that 
hurt  and  haughty.  cc  I  don't  live  in  the  kennels,*" 
says  he,  most  contemptuous.  "  I  am  a  house- 
dog. I  sleep  in  Miss  Dorothy's  room.  And  at 
lunch  I'm  let  in  with  the  family,  if  the  visitors 
don't  mind.  They  most  always  do,  but  they're 
too  polite  to  say  so.  Besides,"  says  he,  smiling 
most  condescending,  "  visitors  are  always  afraid  oi 
me.  It's  because  I'm  so  ugly,"  says  he.  <c  I 
suppose,"  says  he,  screwing  up  his  wrinkles  and 
speaking  very  slow  and  impressive,  "  I  suppose 
I'm  the  ugliest  bull-dog  in  America,"  and  as  he 
seemed  to  be  so  pleased  to  think  hisself  so,  I  said, 
<c  Yes,  sir,  you  certainly  are  the  ugliest  ever  I  see,M 
at  which  he  nodded  his  head  most  approving. 

"  But  I  couldn't  hurt  'em,  as  you  say,"  he  goes 

124 


The  Bar  Sinister 

on,  though  I  hadn't  said  nothing  like  that,  being 
too  polite.  "  Fm  too  old/'  he  says  ;  "  I  haven't 
any  teeth.  The  last  time  one  of  those  grizzly 
bears/'  said  he,  glaring  at  the  big  St.  Bernards, 
<c  took  a  hold  of  me,  he  nearly  was  my  death/* 
says  he.  I  thought  his  eyes  would  pop  out  of  his 
head,  he  seemed  so  wrought  up  about  it.  <e  He 
rolled  me  around  in  the  dirt,  he  did,"  says  Jimmy 
Jocks,  "an*  I  couldn't  get  up.  It  was  low/'  says 
Jimmy  Jocks,  making  a  face  like  he  had  a  bad 
taste  in  his  mouth.  "  Low,  that's  what  I  call  it, 
bad  form,  you  understand,  young  man,  not  done 
in  our  circles — and — and  low."  He  growled, 
way  down  in  his  stomach,  and  puffed  hisself  out, 
panting  and  blowing  like  he  had  been  on  a  run. 

cc  I'm  not  a  street-fighter,"  he  says,  scowling  at 
a  St.  Bernard  marked  "  Champion."  ce  And  when 
my  rheumatism  is  not  troubling  me,"  he  says,  cc  I 
endeavor  to  be  civil  to  all  dogs,  so  long  as  they 
are  gentlemen." 

"  Yes,  sir/'  said  I,  for  even  to  me  he  had  been 
most  affable. 

At  this  we  had  come  to  a  little  house  off"  by 
itself  and  Jimmy  Jocks  invites  me  in.  cc  This  is 
their  trophy-room/'  he  says,  "  where  they  keep 
their  prizes.  Mine,"  he  says,  rather  grand-like, 
"  are  on  the  sideboard."  Not  knowing  what  a 
sideboard  might  be,  I  said,  "  Indeed,  sir,  that 

125 


The  Bar  Sinister 

must  be  very  gratifying."  But  he  only  wrinkled 
up  his  chops  as  much  as  to  say,  "It  is  my 
right." 

The  trophy-room  was  as  wonderful  as  any 
public-house  I  ever  see.  On  the  walls  was  pict- 
ures of  nothing  but  beautiful  St.  Bernard  dogs, 
and  rows  and  rows  of  blue  and  red  and  yellow 
ribbons;  and  when  I  asked  Jimmy  Jocks  why 
they  was  so  many  more  of  blue  than  of  the  others,, 
he  laughs  and  says,  "  Because  these  kennels 
always  win."  And  there  was  many  shining  cups 
on  the  shelves  which  Jimmy  Jocks  told  me  were 
prizes  won  by  the  champions. 

cc  Now,  sir,  might  I  ask  you,  sir,"  says  I, ec  wot 
is  a  champion  ? " 

At  that  he  panted  and  breathed  so  hard  I 
thought  he  would  bust  hisself.  cc  My  dear  young 
friend ! "  says  he.  "  Wherever  have  you  been 
educated?  A  champion  is  a — a  champion,"  he 
says.  "  He  must  win  nine  blue  ribbons  in  the 
*  open  *  class.  You  follow  me — that  is — against 
all  comers.  Then  he  has  the  title  before  his 
name,  and  they  put  his  photograph  in  the  sport- 
ing papers.  You  know,  of  course,  that  /  am  a 
champion,"  says  he.  cc  I  am  Champion  Wood- 
stock Wizard  III.,  and  the  two  other  Woodstock 
Wizards,  my  father  and  uncle,  were  both  cham- 
pions." 

126 


I 


"I  suppose  I'm  the  ugliest  bull-dog  in  America- 


The  Bar  Sinister 

<c  But  I  thought  your  name  was  Jimmy  Jocks,1* 
I  said. 

He  laughs  right  out  at  that. 

"That's  my  kennel  name,  not  my  registered 
name,"  he  says.  "  Why,  you  certainly  know  that 
every  dog  has  two  names.  Now,  what's  your 
registered  name  and  number,  for  instance  ?  "  says 
he, 

"I've  only  got  one  name,"  I  says.  "Just 
Kid." 

Woodstock  Wizard  puffs  at  that  and  wrinkles 
up  his  forehead  and  pops  out  his  eyes. 

4C  Who  are  your  people  ." "  says  he.  **  Where  is 
your  home  ?  " 

"  At  the  stable,  sir,"  I  said.  *  My  Master  is 
the  second  groom." 

At  that  Woodstock  Wizard  III.  looks  at  me 
for  quite  a  bit  without  winking,  and  stares  all 
around  the  room  over  my  head. 

"  Oh,  well,"  says  he  at  last,  cc  you're  a  very 
civil  young  dog,"  says  he,  cc  and  I  blame  no  one 
for  what  he  can't  help,"  which  I  thought  most 
fair  and  liberal.  "  And  I  have  known  many  bull- 
terriers  that  were  champions,"  says  he,  <c  though 
as  a  rule  they  mostly  run  with  fire-engines,  and  to 
fighting.  For  me,  I  wouldn't  care  to  run  through 
the  streets  after  a  hose-cart,  nor  to  fight,"  says  he  | 
*  but  each  to  his  taste." 

127 


The  Bar  Sinister 

I  could  not  help  thinking  that  if  Woodstock 
Wizard  III.  tried  to  follow  a  fire-engine  he  would 
die  of  apoplexy,  and  that,  seeing  he'd  lost  his 
teeth,  it  was  lucky  he  had  no  taste  for  fighting, 
but,  after  his  being  so  condescending,  I  didn't  say 
nothing. 

"Anyway,"  says  he,  "every  smooth-coated 
dog  is  better  than  any  hairy  old  camel  like  those 
St.  Bernards,  and  if  ever  you're  hungry  down  at 
the  stables,  young  man,  come  up  to  the  house  and 
I'll  give  you  a  bone.  I  can't  eat  them  myself, 
but  I  bury  them  around  the  garden  from  force  of 
habit,  and  in  case  a  friend  should  drop  in.  Ah, 
I  see  my  Mistress  coming,"  he  says,  "and  I  bid 
you  good-day.  I  regret,"  he  says, cc  that  our  dif- 
ferent social  position  prevents  our  meeting  fre- 
quent, for  you're  a  worthy  young  dog  with  a  proper 
respect  for  your  betters,  and  in  this  country  there's 
precious  few  of  them  have  that."  Then  he 
waddles  off,  leaving  me  alone  and  very  sad,  for  he 
was  the  first  dog  in  many  days  that  had  spoken  to 
me.  But  since  he  showed,  seeing  that  I  was  a 
stable-dog,  he  didn't  want  my  company,  I  waited 
for  him  to  get  well  away.  It  was  not  a  cheerful 
place  to  wait,  the  Trophy  House.  The  pictures 
of  the  champions  seemed  to  scowl  at  me,  and  ask 
what  right  had  such  as  I  even  to  admire  them, 
and  the  blue  and  gold  ribbons  and  the  silver  cups 

128 


The  Bar  Sinister 

made  me  very  miserable.  I  had  never  won  no 
blue  ribbons  or  silver  cups;  only  stakes  for  the 
old  Master  to  spend  in  the  publics,  and  I  hadn't 
won  them  for  being  a  beautiful,  high-quality  dog, 
but  just  for  fighting — which,  of  course,  as  Wood- 
stock Wizard  III.  says,  is  low.  So  I  started  for 
the  stables,  with  my  head  down  and  my  tail  be- 
tween my  legs,  feeling  sorry  I  had  ever  left  the 
Master.  But  I  had  more  reason  to  be  sorry  be- 
fore I  got  back  to  him. 

The  Trophy  House  was  quite  a  bit  from  the 
kennels,  and  as  I  left  it  I  see  Miss  Dorothy  and 
Woodstock  Wizard  III.  walking  back  toward 
them,  and  that  a  fine,  big  St.  Bernard,  his  name 
was  Champion  Red  Elfberg,  had  broke  his  chain, 
and  was  running  their  way.  When  he  reaches  old 
Jimmy  Jocks  he  lets  out  a  roar  like  a  grain- 
steamer  in  a  fog,  and  he  makes  three  leaps  for 
him.  Old  Jimmy  Jocks  was  about  a  fourth  his 
size ;  but  he  plants  his  feet  and  curves  his  back, 
and  his  hair  goes  up  around  his  neck  like  a  collar. 
Bat  he  never  had  no  show  at  no  time,  for  the 
grizzly  bear,  as  Jimmy  Jocks  had  called  him, 
lights  on  old  Jimmy's  back  and  tries  to  break  it, 
and  old  Jimmy  Jocks  snaps  his  gums  and  claws 
the  grass,  panting  and  groaning  awful.  But  he 
can't  do  nothing,  and  the  grizzly  bear  just  rolls 
him  under  him,  biting  and  tearing  cruel.  The 

129 


The  Bar  Sinister 

odds  was  all  that  Woodstock  Wizard  III.  was 
going  to  be  killed.  I  had  fought  enough  to  see 
that,  but  not  knowing  the  rules  of  the  game 
among  champions,  I  didn't  like  to  interfere  be- 
tween two  gentlemen  who  might  be  settling  a 
private  affair,  and,  as  it  were,  take  it  as  presuming 
of  me.  So  I  stood  by,  though  I  was  shaking 
terrible,  and  holding  myself  in  like  I  was  on  a 
leash.  But  at  that  Woodstock  Wizard  III.,  who 
was  underneath,  sees  me  through  the  dust,  and 
calls  very  faint,  "  Help,  you  ! "  he  says.  <c  Take 
him  in  the  hind-leg,"  he  says.  "  He's  murdering 
me,"  he  says.  And  then  the  little  Miss  Dorothy, 
who  was  crying,  and  calling  to  the  kennel-men, 
catches  at  the  Red  Elfberg's  hind-legs  to  pull 
him  off,  and  the  brute,  keeping  his  front  pats  well 
in  Jimmy's  stomach,  turns  his  big  head  and  snaps 
at  her.  So  that  was  all  I  asked  for,  thank  you. 
I  went  up  under  him.  It  was  really  nothing.  He 
stood  so  high  that  I  had  only  to  take  off  about 
three  feet  from  him  and  come  in  from  the  side, 
and  my  long,  "punishing  jaw"  as  mother  was 
always  talking  about,  locked  on  his  woolly  throat, 
and  my  back  teeth  met.  I  couldn't  shake  him, 
but  I  shook  myself,  and  every  time  I  shook  my- 
self there  was  thirty  pounds  of  weight  tore  at  his 
windpipes.  I  couldn't  see  nothing  for  his  long 
hair,  but  I  heard  Jimmy  Jocks  puffing  and  blow- 

130 


The  Bar  Sinister 

ing  on  one  side,  and  munching  the  brute's  leg 
with  his  old  gums.  Jimmy  was  an  old  sport  that 
Jay,  was  Jimmy,  or,  Woodstock  Wizard  1 1 1., -as 
I  should  say.  When  the  Red  Elfberg  was  out 
and  down  I  had  to  run,  or  those  kennel-men 
would  have  had  my  life.  They  chased  me  right 
into  the  stables ;  and  from  under  the  hay  I  watched 
the  head-groom  take  down  a  carriage-whip  and 
order  them  to  the  right  about.  Luckily  Master 
and  the  young  grooms  were  out,  or  that  day 
there'd  have  been  fighting  for  everybody. 

Well,  it  nearly  did  for  me  and  the  Master. 
"  Mr.  Wyndham,  sir/'  comes  raging  to  the  stables 
and  said  I'd  half-killed  his  best  prize-winner,  and 
had  oughter  be  shot,  and  he  gives  the  Master 
his  notice.  But  Miss  Dorothy  she  follows  him, 
and  says  it  was  his  Red  Elfberg  what  began  the 
fight,  and  that  I'd  saved  Jimmy's  life,  and  that 
old  Jimmy  Jocks  was  worth  more  to  her  than  all 
the  St.  Bernards  in  the  Swiss  mountains — where- 
ever  they  be.  And  that  I  was  her  champion, 
anyway.  Then  she  cried  over  me  most  beautiful, 
and  over  Jimmy  Jocks,  too,  who  was  that  tied  up 
in  bandages  he  couldn't  even  waddle.  So  when 
he  heard  that  side  of  it,  "  Mr.  Wyndham,  sir," 
told  us  that  if  Nolan  put  me  on  a  chain,  we  could 
stay-  So  it  came  out  all  right  for  everybody  but 
me.  I  was  glad  the  Master  kept  his  place,  but 


The  Bar  Sinister 

I'd  never  worn  a  chain  before,  and  it  disheartened 
me — but  that  was  the  least  of  it.  For  the  quality- 
dogs  couldn't  forgive  my  whipping  their  cham- 
pion, and  they  came  to  the  fence  between  the 
kennels  and  ifte  stables,  and  laughed  through  the 
bars,  barking  most  cruel  words  at  me.  I  couldn't 
understand  how  they  found  it  out,  but  they  knew. 
After  the  fight  Jimmy  Jocks  was  most  condescend- 
ing to  me,  and  he  said  the  grooms  had  boasted  to 
the  kennel-men  that  I  was  a  son  of  Regent  Royal, 
and  that  when  the  kennel-men  asked  who  was  my 
mother  they  had  had  to  tell  them  that  too.  Per- 
haps that  was  the  way  of  it,  but,  however,  the 
scandal  was  out,  and  every  one  of  the  quality- 
dogs  knew  that  I  was  a  street-dog  and  the  son  of 
a  black-and-tan. 

cc  These  misalliances  will  occur,"  said  Jimmy 
Jocks,  in  his  old-fashioned  way,  "but  no  well- 
bred  dog,"  says  he,  looking  most  scornful  at  the 
St.  Bernards,  who  were  howling  behind  the  palings, 
"  would  refer  to  your  misfortune  before  you,  cer- 
tainly not  cast  it  in  your  face.  I,  myself,  remem- 
ber your  father's  father,  when  he  made  his  debut 
at  the  Crystal  Palace.  He  took  four  blue  ribbons 
and  three  specials." 

But  no  sooner  than  Jimmy  would  leave  me, 
the  St.  Bernards  would  take  to  howling  again, 

insulting  mother  and  insulting  me.     And  when  I 

132 


The  Bar  Sinister 

tore  at  my  chain,  they,  seeing  they  were  safe, 
would  howl  the  more.  It  was  never  the  same 
after  that ;  the  laughs  and  the  jeers  cut  into  my 
heart,  and  the  chain  bore  heavy  on  my  spirit.  1 
was  so  sad  that  sometimes  I  wished  I  was  back 
in  the  gutter  again,  where  no  one  was  better  than 
me,  and  some  nights  I  wished  I  was  dead.  If  it 
hadn't  been  for  the  Master  being  so  kind,  and 
that  it  would  have  looked  like  I  was  blaming 
mother,  I  would  have  twisted  my  leash  and 
hanged  myself. 

About  a  month  after  my  fight,  the  word  was 
passed  through  the  kennels  that  the  New  York 
Show  was  coming,  and  such  goings  on  as  followed 
I  never  did  see.  If  each  of  them  had  been 
matched  to  fight  for  a  thousand  pounds  and  the 
gate,  they  couldn't  have  trained  more  conscien- 
tious. But,  perhaps,  that's  just  my  envy.  The 
kennel-men  rubbed  'em  and  scrubbed  'em  and 
trims  their  hair  and  curls  and  combs  it,  and  some 
dogs  they  fatted,  and  some  they  starved.  No  one 
talked  of  nothing  but  the  Show,  and  the  chances 
<c  our  kennels "  had  against  the  other  kennels, 
and  if  this  one  of  our  champions  would  win  over 
that  one,  and  whether  them  as  hoped  to  be  cham- 
pions had  better  show  in  the  "  open "  or  the 
"  limit "  ckss,  and  whether  this  dog  would  beat 
his  own  dad,  or  whether  his  little  puppy  sister 


The  Bar  Sinister 

couldn't  beat  the  two  of  them.  Even  the  grooms 
had  their  money  up,  and  day  or  night  you  heard 
nothing  but  praises  of  "  our  "  dogs,  until  I,  being 
so  far  out  of  it,  couldn't  have  felt  meaner  if  I  had 
been  running  the  streets  with  a  can  to  my  tail.  I 
knew  shows  were  not  for  'such  as  me,  and  so  I  lay 
all  day  stretched  at  the  end  of  my  chain,  pretend- 
ing I  was  asleep,  and  only  too  glad  that  they  had 
something  so  important  to  think  of,  that  they 
could  leave  me  alone. 

But  one  day  before  the  Show  opened,  Miss 
Dorothy  came  to  the  stables  with  "  Mr.  Wynd- 
ham,  sir,"  and  seeing  me  chained  up  and  so  miser- 
able, she  takes  me  in  her  arms. 

"You  poor  little  tyke,"  says  she.  "  It's  cruel 
to  tie  him  up  so ;  he's  eating  his  heart  out, 
Nolan,"  she  says.  "  I  don't  know  nothing  about 
bull-terriers,"  says  she,  "  but  I  think  Kid's  got 
good  points,"  says  she,  "  and  you  ought  to  show 
him.  Jimmy  Jocks  has  three  legs  on  the  Rensse- 
laer  Cup  now,  and  I'm  going  to  show  him  this 
time  so  that  he  can  get  the  fourth,  and  if  you 
wish,  I'll  enter  your  dog  too.  How  would  you 
like  that,  Kid?"  says  she.  "  How  would  you  like 
to  see  the  most  beautiful  dogs  in  the  world  ? 
Maybe,  you'd  meet  a  pal  or  two,"  says  she.  "  It 
would  cheer  you  up,  wouldn't  it,  Kid  ? "  says  she. 
But  I  was  so  upset,  I  could  only  wag  my  tail 


The  Bar  Sinister 

most  violent.  "  He  says  it  would !  "  says  she, 
though,  being  that  excited,  I  hadn't  said  nothing. 

So,  "  Mr.  Wyndham,  sir,"  laughs  and  takes 
out  a  piece  of  blue  paper,  and  sits  down  at  the 
head-groom's  table. 

"  What's  the  name  of  the  father  of  your  dog, 
Nolan  ?  "  says  he.  And  Nolan  says,  "  The  man 
I  got  him  off  told  me  he  was  a  son  of  Champion 
Regent  Royal,  sir.  But  it  don't  seem  likely, 
does  it  P  "  says  Nolan. 

«  It  does  not !  "  says  «  Mr.  Wyndham,  sir," 
short-like. 

"Aren't you  sure,  Nolan  ?  "  says  Miss  Dorothy. 

"  No,  Miss,"  says  the  Master. 

"  Sire  unknown,"  says  "  Mr.  Wyndham,  sir," 
and  writes  it  down. 

"  Date  of  birth  ?  "  asks  "  Mr.  Wyndham,  sir." 

"  I I  unknown,  sir,"  says  Nolan. 

And  cc  Mr.  Wyndham,  sir,"  writes  it  down. 

"  Breeder? "  says  "  Mr.  Wyndham,  sir." 

"  Unknown,"  says  Nolan,  getting  very  red 
around  the  jaws,  and  I  drops  my  head  and  tail. 
And  "  Mr.  Wyndham,  sir,"  writes  that  down. 

"  Mother's  name  ?  "  says  <c  Mr.  Wyndham,  sir." 

"  She  was  a unknown,"  says  the  Master. 

And  I  licks  his  hand. 

"  Dam  unknown,"  says  "  Mr.  Wyndham,  sir,'8 
and  writes  it  down.  Then  he  takes  the  paper  and 


The  Bar  Sinister 

reads  out  loud :  "  Sire  unknown,  dam  unknown, 
breeder  unknown,  date  of  birth  unknown.  You'd 
better  call  him  the  c  Great  Unknown/  "  says  he. 
"  Who's  paying  his  entrance-fee  ?  " 

"  I  am,"  says  Miss  Dorothy. 

Two  weeks  after  we  all  got  on  a  train  for  New 
York ;  Jimmy  Jocks  and  me  following  Nolan  in 
the  smoking-car,  and  twenty-two  of  the  St.  Ber- 
nards, in  boxes  and  crates,  and  on  chains  and 
leashes.  Such  a  barking  and  howling  I  never  did 
hear,  and  when  they  sees  me  going,  too,  they 
laughs  fit  to  kill. 

"  Wot  is  this  ;  a  circus  ?  "  says  the  railroad- 
man. 

But  I  had  no  heart  in  it.  I  hated  to  go.  I 
knew  I  was  no  "show"  dog,  even  though  Miss 
Dorothy  and  the  Master  did  their  best  to  keep 
me  from  shaming  them.  For  before  we  set  out 
Miss  Dorothy  brings  a  man  from  town  who 
scrubbed  and  rubbed  me,  and  sand-papered  my 
tail,  which  hurt  most  awful,  and  shaved  my  ears 
with  the  Master's  razor,  so  you  could  most  see 
clear  through  'em,  and  sprinkles  me  over  with 
pipe-clay,  till  I  shines  like  a  Tommy's  cross- 
belts. 

"  Upon  my  word  !  "  says  Jimmy  Jocks  when 
he  first  sees  me.  "  What  a  swell  you  are ! 
You're  the  image  of  your  grand-dad  when  he 

136 


The  Bar  Sinister 

made  his  debut  at  the  Crystal  Palace.  He  took 
four  firsts  and  three  specials."  But  I  knew  he 
was  only  trying  to  throw  heart  into  me.  They 
might  scrub,  and  they  might  rub,  and  they  might 
pipe-clay,  but  they  couldn't  pipe-clay  the  insides 
of  me,  and  they  was  black-and-tan. 

Then  we  came  to  a  Garden,  which  it  was  not, 
but  the  biggest  hall  in  the  world.  Inside  there 
was  lines  of  benches,  a  few  miles  long,  and  on 
them  sat  every  dog  in  the  world.  If  all  the  dog- 
snatchers  in  Montreal  had  worked  night  and  day 
for  a  year,  they  couldn't  have  caught  so  many 
dogs.  And  they  was  all  shouting  and  barking 
and  howling  so  vicious,  that  my  heart  stopped 
beating.  For  at  first  I  thought  they  was  all  en- 
raged at  my  presuming  to  intrude,  but  after  I  got 
in  my  place,  they  kept  at  it  just  the  same,  bark- 
ing at  every  dog  as  he  come  in ;  daring  him  to 
fight,  and  ordering  him  out,  and  asking  him  what, 
breed  of  dog  he  thought  he  was,  anyway.  Jimmy 
Jocks  was  chained  just  behind  me,  and  he  said  he 
never  see  so  fine  a  show.  "  That's  a  hot  class 
you're  in,  my  lad,"  he  says,  looking  over  into  my 
street,  where  there  were  thirty  bull-terriers.  They 
was  all  as  white  as  cream,  and  each  so  beautiful 
that  if  I  could  have  broke  my  chain,  I  would 
have  run  all  the  way  home  and  hid  myself  under 
the  horse-trough. 


The  Bar  Sinister 

All  night  long  they  talked  and  sang,  and  passed 
greetings  with  old  pals,  and  the  home-sick  puppies 
howled  dismal.  Them  that  couldn't  sleep 
wouldn't  let  no  others  sleep,  and  all  the  electric 
lights  burned  in  the  roof,  and  in  my  eyes.  I 
could  hear  Jimmy  Jocks  snoring  peaceful,  but  I 
could  only  doze  by  jerks,  and  when  I  dozed  I 
dreamed  horrible.  All  the  dogs  in  the  hall 
seemed  coming  at  me  for  daring  to  intrude,  with 
their  jaws  red  and  open,  and  their  eyes  blazing 
like  the  lights  in  the  roof.  "  You're  a  street-dog  ! 
Get  out,  you  street-dog ! "  they  yells.  And  as 
they  drives  me  out,  the  pipe-clay  drops  off  me, 
and  they  laugh  and  shriek ;  and  when  I  looks 
down  I  see  that  I  have  turned  into  a  black-and- 
tan. 

They  was  most  awful  dreams,  and  next  morn- 
ing, when  Miss  Dorothy  comes  and  gives  me 
water  in  a  pan,  I  begs  and  begs  her  to  take  me 
home,  but  she  can't  understand.  "  How  well 
Kid  is  !  "  she  says.  And  when  I  jumps  into  the 
Master's  arms,  and  pulls  to  break  my  chain,  he 
says,  "  If  he  knew  all  as  he  had  against  him,  Miss, 
he  wouldn't  be  so  gay."  And  from  a  book  they 
reads  out  the  names  of  the  beautiful  high-bred 
terriers  which  I  have  got  to  meet.  And  I  can't 
make  'em  understand  that  I  only  want  to  run 
away,  and  hide  myself  where  no  one  will  see  me. 

138 


The  Bar  Sinister 

Then  suddenly  men  comes  hurrying  down  our 
street  and  begins  to  brush  the  beautiful  bull-ter- 
riers, and  Nolan  rubs  me  with  a  towel  so  excited 
that  his  hands  trembles  awful,  and  Miss  Dorothy 
tweaks  my  ears  between  her  gloves,  so  that  the 
blood  runs  to  'em,  and  they  turn  pink  and  stand 
up  straight  and  sharp. 

"  Now,  then,  Nolan,"  says  she,  her  voice  shak- 
ing just  like  his  fingers,  "keep  his  head  up — and 
never  let  the  Judge  lose  sight  of  him."  When 
I  hears  that  my  legs  breaks  under  me,  for  I 
knows  all  about  judges.  Twice,  the  old  Master 
goes  up  before  the  Judge  for  fighting  me  with 
other  dogs,  and  the  Judge  promises  him  if  he 
ever  does  it  again,  he'll  chain  him  up  in  jail.  I 
knew  he'd  find  me  out.  A  Judge  can't  be  fooled 
by  no  pipe-clay.  He  can  see  right  through  you, 
and  he  reads  your  insides. 

The  judging-ring,  which  is  where  the  Judge 
holds  out,  was  so  like  a  fighting-pit,  that  when  I 
came  in  it,  and  find  six  other  dogs  there,  I  springs 
into  position,  so  that  when  they  lets  us  go  I  can 
defend  myself*  But  the  Master  smoothes  down 
my  hair  and  whispers,  cc  Hold  'ard,  Kid,  hold 
'ard.  This  ain't  a  fight,"  says  he.  "  Look  your 
prettiest,"  he  whispers.  "  Please,  Kid,  look  your 
prettiest,"  and  he  pulls  my  leash  so  tight  that  I 
can't  touch  mv  pats  to  the  sawdust,  and  my  nose 


The  Bar  Sinister 

g®es  up  in  the  air.  There  was  millions  of  people 
a-watching  us  from  the  railings,  and  three  of  our 
kennel-men,  too,  making  fun  of  Nolan  and  me, 
and  Miss  Dorothy  with  her  chin  just  reaching  to 
the  rail,  and  her  eyes  so  big  that  I  thought  she 
^as  a-going  to  cry.  It  was  awful  to  think  that 
when  the  Judge  stood  up  and  exposed  me,  all 
those  people,  and  Miss  Dorothy,  would  be  there 
to  see  me  driven  from  the  show. 

The  Judge,  he  was  a  fierce-looking  man  with 
specs  on  his  nose,  and  a  red  beard.  When  I  first 
come  in  he  didn't  see  me  owing  to  my  being  too 
quick  for  him  and  dodging  behind  the  Master. 
But  when  the  Master  drags  me  round  and  I  pulls 
at  the  sawdust  to  keep  back,  the  Judge  looks  at 
us  careless-like,  and  then  stops  and  glares  through 
his  specs,  and  I  knew  it  was  all  up  with  me. 

"  Are  there  any  more  ?  "  asks  the  Judge,  to  the 
gentleman  at  the  gate,  but  never  taking  his  specs 
from  me. 

The  man  at  the  gate  looks  in  his  book.  cc  Seven 
in  the  novice-class,"  says  he.  "  They're  all  here. 
You  can  go  ahead,"  and  he  shuts  the  gate. 

The  Judge,  he  doesn't  hesitate  a  moment.  He 
just  waves  his  hand  toward  the  corner  of  the  ring. 
"Take  him  away,"  he  says  to  the  Master.  "Over 
there  and  keep  him  away,"  and  he  turns  and  looks 
most  solemn  at  the  six  beautiful  bull-terriers.  I 

140 


The  Bar  Sinister 

don't  know  how  I  crawled  to  that  corner.  I 
wanted  to  scratch  under  the  sawdust  and  dig  my- 
self a  grave.  The  kennel-men  they  slapped  the 
rail  with  their  hands  and  laughed  at  the  Master 
like  they  would  fall  over.  They  pointed  at  me 
in  the  corner,  and  their  sides  just  shaked.  But 
little  Miss  Dorothy  she  presses  her  lips  tight 
against  the  rail,  and  I  see  tears  rolling  from  her 
eyes.  The  Master,  he  hangs  his  head  like  he  had 
been  whipped.  I  felt  most  sorry  for  him,  than 
all.  He  was  so  red,  and  he  was  letting  on  not  to 
see  the  kennel-men,  and  blinking  his  eyes.  If 
the  Judge  had  ordered  me  right  out,  it  wouldn't 
have  disgraced  us  so,  but  it  was  keeping  me  there 
while  he  was  judging  the  high-bred  dogs  that  hurt 
so  hard.  With  all  those  people  staring  too.  And 
his  doing  it  so  quick,  without  no  doubt  nor  ques- 
tions. You  can't  fool  the  judges.  They  see  in- 
sides  you. 

But  he  couldn't  make  up  his  mind  about  them 
high-bred  dogs.  He  scowls  at  'em,  and  he  glares 
at  'em,  first  with  his  head  on  the  one  side  and 
then  on  the  other.  And  he  feels  of  'em,  and  or- 
ders 'em  to  run  about.  And  Nolan  leans  against 
the  rails,  with  his  head  hung  down,  and  pats  me. 
And  Miss  Dorothy  comes  over  beside  him,  but 
don't  say  nothing,  only  wipes  her  eye  with  her 
finger.  A  man  on  the  other  side  of  the  rail  he 

14* 


The  Bar  Sinister 

says  to  the  Master,  cc  The  Judge  don't  like  youi 
dog?" 

"  No/'  says  the  Master. 

cc  Have  you  ever  shown  him  before  ? "  says  the 
man. 

"  No,"  says  the  Master,  "and  I'll  never  show 
him  again.  He's  my  dog,"  says  the  Master, 
"  an'  he  suits  me  !  And  I  don't  care  what  no 
judges  think."  And  when  he  says  them  kind 
words,  I  licks  his  hand  most  grateful. 

The  Judge  had  two  of  the  six  dogs  on  a  litde 
platform  in  the  middle  of  the  ring,  and  he  had 
chased  the  four  other  dogs  into  the  corners,  where 
they  was  licking  their  chops,  and  letting  on  they 
didn't  care,  same  as  Nolan  was. 

The  two  dogs  on  the  platform  was  so  beautiful 
that  the  Judge  hisself  couldn't  tell  which  was  the 
best  of  'em,  even  when  he  stoops  down  and  holds 
their  heads  together.  But  at  last  he  gives  a  sigh, 
and  brushes  the  sawdust  off  his  knees  ?"id  goes  to 
the  table  in  the  ring,  where  there  was  a  man 
keeping  score,  and  heaps  and  heaps  of  blue  and 
gold  and  red  and  yellow  ribbons.  And  the 
Judge  picks  up  a  bunch  of  'em  and  walks  to  the 
two  gentlemen  who  was  holding  the  beautiful 
dogs,  and  he  says  to  each  c<  What's  his  number  ?  " 
and  he  hands  each  gentleman  a  ribbon.  And  then 
he  turned  sharp,  and  comes  straight  at  the  Master. 

142 


The  Bar  Sinister 

*  What's  his  number  ?  "  says  the  Judge.  And 
Master  was  so  scared  that  he  couldn't  make  no 
answer. 

But  Miss  Dorothy  claps  her  hands  and  cries 
out  like  she  was  laughing,  cc  Three  twenty-six,*" 
and  the  Judge  writes  it  down,  and  shoves  Master 
the  blue  ribbon. 

I  bit  the  Master,  and  I  jumps  and  bit  Miss 
Dorothy,  and  I  waggled  so  hard  that  the  Master 
couldn't  hold  me.  When  I  get  to  the  gate  Miss 
Dorothy  snatches  me  up  and  kisses  me  between 
the  ears,  right  before  millions  of  people,  and  they 
both  hold  me  so  tight  that  I  didn't  know  which 
of  them  was  carrying  of  me0  But  one  thing  I 
knew,  for  I  listened  hard,  as  it  was  the  Judge  his- 
self  as  said  it. 

"  Did  you  see  that  puppy  I  gave  c  first  *  to  ?  v> 
says  the  Judge  to  the  gentleman  at  the  gate. 

"  I  did.  He  was  a  bit  out  of  his  class,"  says 
the  gate-gentleman. 

"  He  certainly  was  ! "  says  the  Judge,  and  they 
both  laughed. 

But  I  didn't  care.  They  couldn't  hurt  me 
then,  not  with  Nolan  holding  the  blue  ribbon 
and  Miss  Dorothy  hugging  my  ears,  and  the 
kennel-men  sneaking  away,  each  looking  like 
he'd  been  caught  with  his  nose  under  the  lid  of 
the  slop-cane 

143 


The  Bar  Sinister 

We  sat  down  together,  and  we  all  three  just 
calked  as  fast  as  we  could.  They  was  so  pleased 
that  I  couldn't  help  feeling  proud  myself,  and  I 
barked  and  jumped  and  leaped  about  so  gay,  that 
all  the  bull-terriers  in  our  street  stretched  on  their 
chains,  and  howled  at  me. 

"  Just  look  at  him  ! "  says  one  of  those  I  had 
beat.  <e  What's  he  giving  hisself  airs  about  f  " 

"  Because  he's  got  one  blue  ribbon ! "  says 
another  of  'em.  "  Why,  when  I  was  a  puppy  I 
used  to  eat  'em,  and  if  that  Judge  could  ever 
learn  to  know  a  toy  from  a  mastiff,  I'd  have  had 
this  one." 

But  Jimmy  Jocks  he  leaned  over  from  his 
bench,  and  says,  "  Well  done,  Kid.  Didn't  I  tell 
you  so  !  "  What  he  'ad  told  me  was  that  I  might 
get  a  cc  commended,"  but  I  didn't  remind  him* 

"  Didn't  I  tell  you,"  says  Jimmy  Jocks,  "  that 
I  saw  your  grandfather  make  his  debut  at  the 
Crystal " 

"  Yes,  sir,  you  did,  sir,"  says  I,  for  I  have  no 
love  for  the  men  of  my  family. 

A  gentleman  with  a  showing  leash  around  his 
neck  comes  up  just  then  and  looks  at  me  very 
critical.  cc  Nice  dog  you've  got.  Miss  Wyndham,*' 
says  he  ;  cc  would  you  care  to  sell  him  ?  " 

a  He's  not  my  dog,"  says  Miss  Dorothy,  hold- 
fog  me  tight.  "  I  wish  he  were," 

144 


Miss  Dorothy  snatches  me  up  and  kisses  me 
between  the  ears." 


The  Bar  Sinister 

"  He's  not  for  sale,  sir,"  says  the  Master,  and 
I  was  that  glad. 

"  Oh,  he's  yours,  is  he  ?  "  says  the  gentleman, 
looking  hard  at  Nolan.  cc  Well,  I'll  give  you  a 
hundred  dollars  for  him,"  says  he,  careless-like. 

"  Thank  you,  sir,  he's  not  for  sale,"  says  Nolan> 
but  his  eyes  get  very  big.  The  gentleman,  he 
walked  away,  but  I  watches  him,  and  he  talks  to 
a  man  in  a  golf-cap,  and  by  and  by  the  man  comes 
along  our  street,  looking  at  all  the  dogs,  and  stops 
in  front  of  me. 

<c  This  your  dog  ?  M  says  he  to  Nolan.  "  Pity 
he's  so  leggy,"  says  he.  <c  If  he  had  a  good  tail, 
and  a  longer  stop,  and  his  ears  were  set  higher, 
he'd  be  a  good  dog.  As  he  is,  I'll  give  you  fifty 
dollars  for  him.*' 

But,  before  the  Master  could  speak,  Miss 
Dorothy  laughs,  and  says,  "  You're  Mr.  Folk's 
kennel-man,  I  believe.  Well,  you  tell  Mr.  Polk 
from  me  that  the  dog's  not  for  sale  now  any  more 
than  he  was  five  minutes  ago,  and  that  when  he 
is,  he'll  have  to  bid  against  me  for  him."  The 
man  looks  foolish  at  that,  but  he  turns  to  Nolan 
quick-like.  <c  I'll  give  you  three  hundred  for 
him,"  he  says. 

"  Oh,  indeed ! "  whispers  Miss  Dorothy,  like 
she  was  talking  to  herself.  "That's  it,  is  it,*5 
and  she  turns  and  looks  at  me  just  as  though  she 


The  Bar  Sinister 

had  never  seen  me  before.  Nolan,  he  was  gap- 
ing, too,  with  his  mouth  open.  But  he  holds  me 
tight. 

"  He's  not  for  sale,"  he  growls,  like  he  was 
frightened,  and  the  man  looks  black  and  walks 
away. 

"  Why,  Nolan  !  "  cries  Miss  Dorothy,  "  Mr. 
Polk  knows  more  about  bull-terriers  than  any 
amateur  in  America.  What  can  he  mean  ?  Why, 
Kid  is  no  more  than  a  puppy !  Three  hundred 
dollars  for  a  puppy  !  " 

"And  he  ain't  no  thoroughbred  neither !  "  cries 
the  Master.  "  He's  c  Unknown/  ain't  he  ?  Kid 
can't  help  it,  of  course,  but  his  mother,  Miss " 

I  dropped  my  head.  I  couldn't  bear  he  should 
tell  Miss  Dorothy.  I  couldn't  bear  she  should 
know  I  had  stolen  my  blue  ribbon. 

But  the  Master  never  told,  for  at  that,  a  gentle- 
man runs  up,  calling,  "  Three  Twenty-Six,  Three 
Twenty-Six,'  and  Miss  Dorothy  says,  "Here  he 
is,  what  is  it  ?  " 

"The  Winner's  Class,"  says  the  gentleman 
"  Hurry,  please.  The  Judge  is  waiting  for  him." 

Nolan  tries  to  get  me  off  the  chain  onto  a 
showing  leash,  but  he  shakes  so,  he  only  chokes 
me.  "  What  is  it,  Miss  ? "  he  says.  "  What  is  it? " 

"The   Winner's  Class,"   says   Miss  Dorothy. 

"The  Judge  wants  him  with  the  winners  of  the 

146 


The  Bar  Sinister 

other  classes — to  decide  which  is  the  best.  It's 
^nly  a  form,"  says  she.  "  He  has  the  champions 
against  him  now." 

"  Yes,"  says  the  gentleman,  as  he  hurries  us  to 
the  ring.  cc  I'm  afraid  it's  only  a  form  for  your 
dog,  but  the  Judge  wants  all  the  winners,  puppy 
class  even." 

We  had  got  to  the  gate,  and  the  gentleman 
there  was  writing  down  my  number. 
x    "  Who  won  the  open  ?  "  asks  Miss  Dorothy. 

"  Oh,  who  would  ? "  laughs  the  gentleman. 
"  The  old  champion,  of  course.  He's  won  for 
three  years  now.  There  he  is.  Isn't  he  wonder- 
ful ? "  says  he,  and  he  points  to  a  dog  that's  stand- 
ing proud  and  haughty  on  the  platform  in  the 
middle  of  the  ring. 

I  never  see  so  beautiful  a  dog,  so  fine  and  clean 
and  noble,  so  white  like  he  had  rolled  hisself  in 
flour,  holding  his  nose  up  and  his  eyes  shut,  same 
as  though  no  one  was  worth  looking  at.  Aside 
of  him,  w^  ^ther  dogs,  even  though  we  had  a  blue 
ribbon  apiece,  seemed  like  lumps  of  mud.  He 
was  a  royal  gentleman,  a  king,  he  was.  His 
Master  didn't  have  to  hold  his  head  with  no  leash. 
He  held  it  hisself,  standing  as  still  as  an  iron  dog 
on  a  lawn,  like  he  knew  all  the  people  was  look- 
ing at  him.  And  so  they  was,  and  no  one  around 
the  ring  pointed  at  no  other  dog  but  him. 

147 


The  Bar  Sinister 

ccOh,  what  a  picture/'  cried  Miss  Dorothy; 
rc  he's  like  a  marble  figure  by  a  great  artist — one 
ttho  loved  dogs.  Who  is  he  ?  "  says  she,  looking 
in  her  book.  "  I  don't  keep  up  with  terriers." 

"  Oh,  you  know  him,"  says  the  gentleman. 
"  He  is  the  Champion  of  champions,  Regent 
Royal." 

The  Master's  face  went  red. 

"And  this  is  Regent  Royal's  son,"  cries  he,  and 
he  pulls  me  quick  into  the  ring,  and  plants  me  on 
the  platform  next  my  father. 

I  trembled  so  that  I  near  fall.  My  legs  twisted 
like  a  leash.  But  my  father  he  never  looked  at 
me.  He  only  smiled,  the  same  sleepy  smile,  and 
he  still  keep  his  eyes  half-shut,  like  as  no  one,  no, 
not  even  his  son,  was  worth  his  lookin'  at. 

The  Judge,  he  didn't  let  me  stay  beside  my 
father,  but,  one  by  one,  he  placed  the  other  dogs 
next  to  him  and  measured  and  felt  and  pulled  at 
them.  And  each  one  he  put  down,  but  he  never 
put  my  father  down.  And  then  he  comes  over 
and  picks  up  me  and  sets  me  back  on  the  plat- 
form, shoulder  to  shoulder  with  the  Champion 
Regent  Royal,  and  goes  down  on  his  knees,  and 
looks  into  our  eyes. 

The  gentleman  with  my  father,  he  laughs,  and 
says  to  the  Judge,  "  Thinking  of  keeping  us  here 
all  day.  John  ?  "  but  the  Judge,  he  doesn't  hear 

148 


The  Bar  Sinister 

him,  and  goes  behind  us  and  runs  his  hand  down 
my  side,  and  holds  back  my  ears,  and  takes  my 
jaws  between  his  fingers.  The  crowd  around  the 
ring  is  very  deep  now,  and  nobody  says  nothing. 
The  gentleman  at  the  score-table,  he  is  leaning 
forward,  with  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  and  his 
eyes  very  wide,  and  the  gentleman  at  the  gate  is 
whispering  quick  to  Miss  Dorothy,  who  has 
turned  white.  I  stood  as  stiff  as  stone.  I  didn't 
even  breathe.  But  out  of  the  corner  of  my  eye 
I  could  see  my  father  licking  his  pink  chops,  and 
yawning  just  a  little,  like  he  was  bored. 

The  Judge,  he  had  stopped  looking  fierce,  and 
was  looking  solemn.  Something  inside  him 
seemed  a  troubling  him  awful.  The  more  he 
stares  at  us  now,  the  more  solemn  he  gets,  and 
when  he  touches  us  he  does  it  gentle,  like  he  was 
patting  us.  For  a  long  time  he  kneels  in  the 
sawdust,  looking  at  my  father  and  at  me,  and  no 
one  around  the  ring  says  nothing  to  nobody. 

Then  the  Judge  takes  a  breath  and  touches  me 
sudden.  Ct  It's  his,"  he  says,  but  he  lays  his 
hand  just  as  quick  on  my  father.  "  I'm  sorry," 
says  he. 

The  gentleman  holding  my  father  cries  : 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me " 

And  the  Judge,  he  answers,  "  I  mean  the  other 
is  the  better  dog."  He  takes  my  father's  head 

149 


The  Bar   Sinister 

between  his  hands  and  looks  down  at  him,  most 
sorrowful.  "  The  King  is  dead,"  says  he,  "  long 
live  the  King.  Good-by,  Regent,"  he  says. 

The  crowd  around  the  railings  clapped  their 
hands,  and  some  laughed  scornful,  and  everyone 
talks  fast,  and  I  start  for  the  gate  so  dizzy  that  I 
can't  see  my  way.  But  my  father  pushes  in  front 
of  me,  walking  very  daintily,  and  smiling  sleepy, 
same  as  he  had  just  been  waked,  with  his  head 
high,  and  his  eyes  shut,  looking  at  nobody. 

So  that  is  how  I  cc  came  by  my  inheritance," 
as  Miss  Dorothy  calls  it,  and  just  for  that,  though 
I  couldn't  feel  where  I  was  any  different,  the 
crowd  follows  me  to  my  bench,  and  pats  me,  and 
coos  at  me,  like  I  was  a  baby  in  a  baby-carriage. 
And  the  handlers  have  to  hold  'em  back  so  that 
the  gentlemen  from  the  papers  can  make  pictures 
of  me,  and  Nolan  walks  me  up  and  down  so 
proud,  and  the  men  shakes  their  heads  and  says, 
<(  He  certainly  is  the  true  type,  he  is  !  "  And  the 
pretty  ladies  asks  Miss  Dorothy,  who  sits  beside 
me  letting  me  lick  her  gloves  to  show  the  crowd 
what  friends  we  is,  "  Aren't  you  afraid  he'll  bite 
you  ? "  and  Jimmy  Jocks  calls  to  me,  "  Didn't  I 
tell  you  so  !  I  always  knew  you  were  one  of  us. 
Blood  will  out,  Kid,  blood  will  out.  I  saw  your 
grandfather,"  says  he,  "make  his  debut  at  the 
Crystal  Palace.  But  he  was  never  the  dog  you  are!" 

150 


The  Bar  Sinister 

After  that,  if  I  could  have  asked  for  it,  there 
was  nothing  I  couldn't  get.  You  might  have 
thought  I  was  a  snow-dog,  and  they  was  afeerd 
I'd  melt.  If  I  wet  my  pats,  Nolan  gave  me  a 
hot  bath  and  chained  me  to  the  stove ;  if  I 
couldn't  eat  my  food,  being  stuffed  full  by  the 
cook,  for  I  am  a  house-dog  now,  and  let  in  to 
lunch  whether  there  is  visitors  or  not,  Nolan 
would  run  to  bring  the  vet.  It  was  all  tommy- 
rot,  as  Jimmy  says,  but  meant  most  kind.  I 
couldn't  scratch  myself  comfortable,  without 
Nolan  giving  me  nasty  drinks,  and  rubbing  me 
outside  till  it  burnt  awful,  and  I  wasn't  let  to  eat 
bones  for  fear  of  spoiling  my  "  beautiful  "  mouth, 
what  mother  used  to  call  my  "  punishing  jaw," 
and  my  food  was  cooked  special  on  a  gas-stove, 
and  Miss  Dorothy  gives  me  an  overcoat,  cut  very 
stylish  like  the  champions',  to  wear  when  we  goes 
out  carriage-driving. 

After  the  next  show,  where  I  takes  three  blue 
ribbons,  four  silver  cups,  two  medals,  and  brings 
home  forty-five  dollars  for  Nolan,  they  gives  me  a 
"Registered"  name,  same  as  Jimmy's.  Miss 
Dorothy  wanted  to  call  me  cc  Regent  Heir  Ap- 
parent," but  I  was  THAT  glad  when  Nolan  says, 
"  No,  Kid  don't  owe  nothing  to  his  father,  only 
to  you  and  hisself.  So,  if  you  please,  Miss,  we'll 
call  him  Wyndham  Kid."  And  so  they  did,  and 


The  Bar  Sinister 

you  can  see  it  on  my  overcoat  in  blue  letters,  and 
painted  top  of  my  kennel.  It  was  all  too  hard 
to  understand.  For  days  I  just  sat  and  wondered 
if  I  was  really  me,  and  how  it  all  come  about,  and 
why  everybody  was  so  kind.  But,  oh,  it  was  so 
good  they  was,  for  if  they  hadn't  beenj  I'd  never 
have  got  the  thing  I  most  wished  after.  But,  be- 
cause they  was  kind,  and  not  liking  to  deny  me 
nothing,  they  gave  it  me,  and  it  was  more  to  me 
than  anything  in  the  world. 

It  came  about  one  day  when  we  was  out  driv- 
ing. We  was  in  the  cart  they  calls  the  dog-cart, 
because  it's  the  one  Miss  Dorothy  keeps  to  take 
Jimmy  and  me  for  an  airing.  Nolan  was  up  be- 
hind, and  me  in  my  new  overcoat  was  sitting 
beside  Miss  Dorothy.  I  was  admiring  the  view, 
and  thinking  how  good  it  was  to  have  a  horse 
pull  you  about  so  that  you  needn't  get  yourself 
splashed  and  have  to  be  washed,  when  I  hears  a 
dog  calling  loud  for  help,  and  I  pricks  up  my 
ears  and  looks  over  the  horse's  head.  And  I  sees 
something  that  makes  me  tremble  down  to  my 
toes.  In  the  road  before  us  three  big  dogs  was 
chasing  a  little,  old  lady-dog.  She  had  a  string  to 
her  tail,  where  some  boys  had  tied  a  can,  and  she 
was  dirty  with  mud  and  ashes,  and  torn  most  aw- 
ful. She  was  too  far  done  up  to  get  away,  and 
too  old  to  help  herself,  but  she  was  making  a  fight 

152 


The  Bar  Sinister 

for  her  life,  snapping  her  old  gums  savage,  anc 
dying  game.  All  this  I  see  in  a  wink,  and  then 
the  three  dogs  pinned  her  down,  and  I  can't  stand 
M  no  longer  and  clears  the  wheel  and  lands  in  the 
road  on  my  head.  It  was  my  stylish  overcoat 
done  that,  and  I  curse  it  proper,  but  I  gets  my 
pats  again  quick,  and  makes  a  rush  for  the  fight- 
ing. Behind  me  I  hear  Miss  Dorothy  cry, 
"  They'll  kill  that  old  dog.  Wait,  take  my  whip. 
Beat  them  off  her!  The  Kid  can  take  care  of 
himself,"  and  I  hear  Nolan  fail  into  the  road,  and 
the  horse  come  to  a  stop.  The  old  lady-dog  was 
down,  and  the  three  was  eating  her  vicious,  but  as 
1  come  up,  scattering  the  pebbles,  she  hears,  and 
thinking  it's  one  more  of  them,  she  lifts  her  head 
and  my  heart  breaks  open  like  someone  had  sunk 
his  teeth  in  it.  For,  under  the  ashes  and  the  dirt 
and  the  blood,  I  can  see  who  it  is,  and  I  know  that 
my  mother  has  come  back  to  me. 

I  gives  a  yell  that  throws  them  three  dogs  off 
their  legs. 

"  Mother  !  "  I  cries,  "  I'm  the  Kid,"  I  cries, 
*  I'm  coming  to  you,  mother,  I'm  coming/' 

And  1  shoots  over  her,  at  the  throat  of  the  big 
dog,  and  the  other  two,  they  sinks  their  teeth  into 
that  stylish  overcoat,  and  tears  it  off  me,  and  that 
sets  me  free,  and  I  lets  them  have  it.  I  never 
had  so  fine  a  fight  as  that !  What  with  mother 


The  Bar  Sinister 

being  there  to  see,  and  not  having  been  let  to  mix 
up  in  no  fights  since  I  become  a  prize-winner,  it 
just  naturally  did  me  good,  and  it  wasn't  three 
shakes  before  I  had  Bem  yelping.  Quick  as  a 
wink,  mother,  she  jumps  in  to  help  me,  and  I  just 
laughed  to  see  hen  It  was  so  like  old  times 
And  Nolan,  he  made  me  laugh  too.  He  was  like 
a  hen  on  a  bank,  shaking  the  butt  of  his  whipj, 
but  not  daring  to  cut  in  for  fear  of  hitting  me- 

"  Stop  it,  Kid,"  he  says,  "  stop  it.  Do  you 
want  to  be  all  torn  up  ?"  says  he.  "  Think  of  the 
Boston  show  next  week,"  says  he.  ce  Think  of 
Chicago.  Think  of  Danbury*  Don't  you  never 
want  to  be  a  champion?"  How  was  I  to  think 
of  all  them  places  when  I  had  three  dogs  to  cut 
up  at  the  same  time.  But  in  a  minute  two  of  'em 
begs  for  mercy,  and  mother  and  me  lets  'em  run 
away.  The  big  one,  he  ain't  able  to  run  away,, 
Then  mother  and  me,  we  dances  and  jumps,  and 
barks  and  laughs,  and  bites  each  other  and  rolls 
each  other  in  the  road.  There  never  was  two 
dogs  so  happy  as  we,  and  Nolan,  he  whistles  and 
calls  and  begs  me  to  come  to  him,  but  I  just  laugh 
and  play  larks  with  mother. 

"  Now,  you  come  with  me,"  says  I,  "  to  my 
new  home,  and  never  try  to  run  away  again.0' 
And  I  shows  her  our  house  with  the  five  red 
roofs,  set  on  the  top  of  the  hill  But  mother 


The  Bar  Sinister 

tremblers  nwful,  and  says :  "  They'd  never  let  tne 
likes  of  me  in  such  a  place.  Does  the  Viceroy 
live  there,  Kid  f  "  says  she.  And  I  laugh  at  hero 
"  No,  I  <do,"  I  says  ;  cc  and  if  they  won't  let  you 
live  there,  too,  you  and  me  will  go  back  to  the 
streets  together,  for  we  must  never  be  parted  no 
more."  So  we  trots  up  the  hill,  side  by  side,  with 
Nolaix  trying  to  catch  me,  and  Miss  Dorothy 
laughing  at  him  from  the  cart. 

"The  Kid's  made  friends  with  the  poor  old 
dog/*  says  she.  "  Maybe  he  knew  her  long  ago 
when  he  ran  the  streets  himself.  Put  her  in  here 
beside  me,  and  see  if  he  doesn't  follow." 

So,  when  I  hears  that,  I  tells  mother  to  go  with 
Nolan  and  sit  in  the  cart,  but  she  says  no,  that 
she'd  soil  the  pretty  lady's  frock ;  but  I  tells  her 
to  do  as  I  say,  and  so  Nolan  lifts  her,  trembling 
still,  into  the  cart,  and  I  runs  alongside,  barking 
joyful. 

When  we  drives  into  the  stables  I  takes  moth- 
er to  my  kennel,  and  tells  her  to  go  inside  it 
and  make  herself  at  home.  "  Oh,  but  he  won't 
let  me  !  "  says  she. 

"  Who  won't  let  you  ?  "  says  I,  keeping  my 
eye  on  Nolan,  and  growling  a  bit  nasty,  just  to 
show  I  was  meaning  to  have  my  way. 

"  Why,  Wyndham  Kid,"  says  she,  looking  up 
at  the  name  on  my  kennel. 

'55 


The  Bar  Sinister 

«  But  I'm  Wyndham  Kid  !  "  says  I. 

"  You  !  "  cries  mother.  "  You  !  Is  my  little 
Kid  the  great  Wyndham  Kid  the  dogs  all  talk 
about  ?  "  And  at  that,  she,  being  very  old,  and 
sick,  and  hungry,  and  nervous,  as  mothers  are, 
just  drops  down  in  the  straw  and  weeps  bitter. 

Well,  there  ain't  much  more  than  that  to  tell 
Miss  Dorothy,  she  settled  it, 

"If  the  Kid  wants  the  poor  old  thing  in  the 
stables,"  says  she,  "  let  her  stay." 

"  You  see,"  says  she,  "  she's  a  black-and-tan, 
and  his  mother  was  a  black-and-tan,  and  maybe 
that's  what  makes  Kid  feel  so  friendly  toward  her/' 
says  she. 

"  Indeed,  for  me,"  says  Nolan,  *e  she  can  have 
the  best  there  is.  I'd  never  drive  out  no  dog 
that  asks  for  a  crust  nor  a  shelter,"  he  says.  "  But 
what  will  Mr.  Wyndham  do  ?  " 

"  He'll  do  what  I  say,"  says  Miss  Dorothy, 
**  and  if  I  say  she's  to  stay,  she  will  stay,  and  I 
say — she's  to  stay  !  " 

And  so  mother  and  Nolan,  and  me,  found  a 
home*  Mother  was  scared  at  first — not  being 
used  to  kind  people — but  she  was  so  gentle  and 
loving,  that  the  grooms  got  fonder  of  her  than  of 
me,  and  tried  to  make  me  jealous  by  patting 
of  her,  and  giving  her  the  pick  of  the  vittles. 
But  that  was  the  wrong  way  to  hurt  my  feelings. 

156 


The  Bar  Sinister 

That's  all,  I  think,  Mother  is  so  happy  here 
that  I  tell  her  we  ought  to  call  it  the  Happy  Hunt- 
ing Grounds,  because  no  one  hunts  you,  and  there 
is  nothing  to  hunt;  it  just  all  comes  to  you0 
And  so  we  live  in  peace,  mother  sleeping  all  day 
in  the  sun,  or  behind  the  stove  in  the  head-groom's 
office,  being  fed  twice  a  day  regular  by  Nolan^, 
and  all  the  day  by  the  other  grooms  most  irregular0 
And,  as  for  me,  I  go  hurrying  around  the  country 
to  the  bench-shows ;  winning  money  and  cups 
for  Nolan,  and  taking  the  blue  ribbons  away  from 
father. 


A    DERELICT 


A  Derelict 

WHEN  the  war-ships  of  a  navy  He  cleared 
for  action  outside  a  harbor,  and  the  war- 
ships of  the  country  with  which  they  are  at  war  lie 
cleared  for  action  inside  the  harbor,  there  is  likely 
to  be  trouble.  Trouble  between  war-ships  is 
news,  and  wherever  there  is  news  there  is  always 
a  representative  of  the  Consolidated  Press. 

As  long  as  Sampson  blockaded  Havana  and 
the  army  beat  time  back  of  the  Tampa  Bay  Hotel, 
the  central  office  for  news  was  at  Key  West,  but 
when  Cervera  slipped  into  Santiago  Harbor  and 
Sampson  stationed  his  battle-ships  at  its  mouth, 
Key  West  lost  her  only  excuse  for  existence,  and 
the  press-boats  buried  their  bows  in  the  waters  of 
the  Florida  Straits  and  raced  for  the  cable-station 
at  Port  Antonio*  It  was  then  that  Keating,  the 
"  star  "  man  of  the  Consolidated  Press  Syndicate, 
was  forced  to  abandon  his  young  bride  and  the 
rooms  he  had  engaged  for  her  at  the  Key  West 
Hotel,  and  accompany  his  tug  to  the  distant  island 
of  Jamaica 

Keating  was  a  good  and  faithful  servant  to  the 
161 


A   Derelict 

Consolidated  Pressr  He  was  a  correspondent 
after  its  own  making,  an  industrious  collector  of 
facts.,  The  Consolidated  Press  did  not  ask  him 
to  comment  on  what  it  sent  him  to  see ;  it  did 
not  require  nor  desire  his  editorial  opinions  or 
impressions,  It  was  no  part  of  his  work  to  go 
into  the  motives  which  led  to  the  event  of  news 
interest  which  he  was  sent  to  report,  nor  to  point 
out  what  there  was  of  it  which  was  dramatic,  pa- 
thetic, or  outrageous. 

The  Consolidated  Press,  being  a  mighty  corpo- 
ration, which  daily  fed  seven  hundred  different 
newspapers,  could  not  hope  to  please  the  policy 
of  each,  so  it  compromised  by  giving  the  facts  of 
the  day  fairly  set  down,  without  heat,  prejudice, 
or  enthusiasm.  This  was  an  excellent  arrange- 
ment for  the  papers  that  subscribed  for  the  service 
of  the  Consolidated  Press,  but  it  was  death  to  the 
literary  strivings  of  the  Consolidated  Press  corre- 
spondents. 

r<*  We  do  not  want  descriptive  writing,"  was  the 
warning  which  the  manager  of  the  great  syndicate 
was  always  flashing  to  its  correspondents.  "  We 
do  not  pay  you  to  send  us  pen-pictures  or  prose 
poems.  We  want  the  facts,  all  the  facts,  and 
nothing  but  the  factSo" 

And  so,  when  at  a  presidential  convention  a 
theatrical  speaker  sat  down  after  calling  James  G 

162 


A  Derelict 

Blame  **  a  plumed  knight,"  each  of  the  tc  special "° 
correspondents  present  wrote  two  columns  in  an 
effort  to  describe  how  the  people  who  heard  the 
speech  behaved  in  consequence,  but  the  Consoli- 
dated Press  man  telegraphed,  cc  At  the  conclu- 
sion of  these  remarks  the  cheering  lasted  sixteen 
minutes." 

No  event  of  news  value  was  too  insignificant 
to  escape  the  watchfulness  of  the  Consolidated 
Press,  none  so  great  that  it  could  not  handle  it 
from  its  inception  up  to  the  moment  when  it 
ceased  to  be  quoted  in  the  news-market  of  the 
world.  Each  night,  from  thousands  of  spots  all 
over  the  surface  of  the  globe,  it  received  thousands 
of  facts,  of  cold,  accomplished  facts.  It  knew  that 
a  tidal  wave  had  swept  through  China,  a  cabinet 
had  changed  in  Chili,  in  Texas  an  express  train 
had  been  held  up  and  robbed,  "  Spike  "  Kennedy 
had  defeated  the  <c  Dutchman  "  in  New  Orleans, 
the  Oregon  had  coaled  outside  of  Rio  Janeiro 
Harbor,  the  Cape  Verde  fleet  had  been  seen  at 
anchor  off  Cadiz ;  it  had  been  located  in  the  har- 
bor of  San  Juan,  Porto  Rico ;  it  had  been  sighted 
steaming  slowly  past  Fortress  Monroe ;  and  the 
Navy  Department  reported  that  the  St.  Paul  had 
discovered  the  lost  squadron  of  Spain  in  the  har- 
bor of  Santiago.  This  last  fact  was  the  one  which 
sent  Keating  to  Jamaica.  Where  he  was  sent  was 

163 


A  Derelict 

a  matter  of  indifference  to  Keating.  He  had  worn 
the  collar  of  the  Consolidated  Press  for  so  long  a 
time  that  he  was  callous,,  A  board  meeting — a 
mine  disaster — an  Indian  uprising — it  was  all  one 
to  Keating.  He  collected  facts  and  his  salary^ 
He  had  no  enthusiasms,  he  held  no  illusions.. 
The  prestige  of  the  mammoth  syndicate  he  rep- 
resented gained  him  an  audience  where  men  who 
wrote  for  one  paper  only  were  repulsed  on  the 
threshold.  Senators,  governors,  the  presidents  of 
great  trusts  and  railroad  systems,  who  fled  from 
the  reporter  of  a  local  paper  as  from  a  leper,  would 
send  for  Keating  and  dictate  to  him  whatever  it  was 
they  wanted  the  people  of  the  United  States  to  be- 
lieve, for  when  they  talked  to  Keating  they  talked 
to  many  millions  of  readers.  Keating,  in  turn^ 
wrote  out  what  they  had  said  to  him  and  trans- 
mitted it,  without  color  or  bias,  to  the  clearing- 
house of  the  Consolidated  Press,,  His  "  stories,*" 
as  all  newspaper  writings  are  called  by  men  who 
write  them,  were  as  picturesque  reading  as  the 
quotations  of  a  stock-ticker.  The  personal  equa- 
tion appeared  no  more  offensively  than  it  does  in 
a  page  of  typewriting  in  his  work. 

Consequently,  he  was  dear  to  the  heart  of  the 
Consolidated  Press,  and,  as  a  "  safe  "  man,  was 
sent  to  the  beautiful  harbor  of  Santiago — to  a 
spot  where  there  were  war-ships  cleared  for  action, 

164 


A  Derelict 

Cubans  in  ambush,  naked  marines  fighting  for  a 
foothold  at  Guantanamo,  palm-trees  and  coral- 
reefs — in  order  that  he  might  look  for  "  facts." 

There  was  not  a  newspaper  man  left  at  Key 
West  who  did  not  writhe  with  envy  and  anger 
when  he  heard  of  it.  When  the  wire  was  closed 
for  the  night,  and  they  had  gathered  at  Josh 
Kerry's,  Keating  was  the  storm-centre  of  their 
indignation. 

"What  a  chance!"  they  protested.  **  What 
a  story  !  It's  the  chance  of  a  lifetime."  They 
shook  their  heads  mournfully  and  lashed  them- 
selves with  pictures  of  its  possibilities. 

**  And  just  fancy  its  being  wasted  on  old  Keat- 
mg,'*  said  the  Journal  man.  "  Why,  everything's 
likely  to  happen  out  there,  and  whatever  does 
happen,  he'll  make  it  read  like  a  Congressional 
Record.  Why,  when  I  heard  of  it  I  cabled  the 
office  that  if  the  paper  would  send  me  I'd  not  ask 
for  any  salary  for  six  months." 

"And  Keating's  kicking  because  he  has  to  go/* 
growled  the  Sun  man.  "Yes,  he  is,  1  saw  him 
last  night,  and  he  was  sore  because  he'd  just 
moved  his  wife  down  here.  He  said  if  he'd 
known  this  was  coming  he'd  have  let  her  stay  in 
New  York.  He  says  he'll  lose  money  on  this 
assignment,  having  to  support  himself  and  his 
wife  in  two  different  places." 

16$ 


A  Derelict 

Norris, cc  the  star  man  "  of  the  Wortd>  howled 
with  indignation. 

"  Good  Lord !  "  he  said,  "  is  that  all  he  sees  in 
it?  Why,  there  never  was  such  a  chance.  I  tell 
you,  some  day  soon  all  of  those  war-ships  will  let 
loose  at  each  other  and  there  will  be  the  best  story 
that  ever  came  over  the  wire,  and  if  there  isn't, 
it's  a  regular  loaf  anyway.  It's  a  picnic,  that's 
what  it  is,  at  the  expense  of  the  Consolidated 
Press.  Why,  he  ought  to  pay  them  to  let  him 
go.  Can't  you  see  him,  confound  him,  sitting 
under  a  palm-tree  in  white  flannels,  with  a  glass 
of  Jamaica  rum  in  his  fist,  while  we're  dodging 
yellow  fever  on  this  coral-reef,  and  losing  our 
salaries  on  a  crooked  roulette-wheel." 

"  I  wonder  what  Jamaica  rum  is  like  as  a  steady 
drink,"  mused  the  ex-baseball  reporter,  who  had 
been  converted  into  a  war-correspondent  by  the 
purchase  of  a  white  yachting-cap. 

<c  It  won't  be  long  before  Keating  finds  out," 
said  the  Journal  man. 

"  Oh,  I  didn't  know  that,"  ventured  the  new 
reporter,  who  had  just  come  South  from  Boston. 
fc  I  thought  he  didn't  drink.  I  never  see  Keating 
in  here  with  the  rest  of  the  boys." 

cc  You  wouldn't,"  said  Norris.  cc  He  only 
comes  in  here  by  himself,  and  he  drinks  by  him- 
self. He's  one  of  those  confidential  drunkards, 

166 


A  Derelict 

You  give  some  men  whiskey,  and  it's  like  throw- 
ing kerosene  on  a  fire,  isn't  it?  It  makes  them 
wave  their  arms  about  and  talk  loud  and  break 
things,  but  you  give  it  to  another  man  and  it's 
like  throwing  kerosene  on  a  cork  mat.  It  just 
soaks  in.  That's  what  Keating  is.  He's  a  sort 
of  a  cork  mat." 

cc  I  shouldn't  think  the  C.  P.  would  stand  for 
that,"  said  the  Boston  man. 

"It  wouldn't,  if  it  ever  interfered  with  his 
work,  but  he's  never  fallen  down  on  a  story  yet. 
And  the  sort  of  stuff  he  writes  is  machine-made ; 
a  man  can  write  C.  P.  stuff  in  his  sleep." 

One  of  the  World  men  looked  up  and 
laughed. 

cc  I  wonder  if  he'll  run  across  Channing  out 
there,"  he  said.  The  men  at  the  table  smiled,  a 
kindly,  indulgent  smile.  The  name  seemed  to 
act  upon  their  indignation  as  a  shower  upon  the 
close  air  of  a  summer-day.  <c  That's  so,"  said 
Norris.  "He  wrote  me  last  month  from  Port- 
au-Prince  that  he  was  moving  on  to  Jamaica.  He 
wrote  me  from  that  club  there  at  the  end  of  the 
wharf.  He  said  he  was  at  that  moment  introduc- 
ing the  President  to  a  new  cocktail,  and  as  he  had 
no  money  to  pay  his  passage  to  Kingston  he  was 
trying  to  persuadt  him  to  send  him  on  there  as 
his  Haitian  Consul.  He  said  in  case  he  couldn't 

167 


A  Derelict 

get  appointed  Consul,  he  had  an  offer  to  go  as 
cook  on  a  fruit-tramp." 

The  men  around  the  table  laughed.  It  was 
the  pleased,  proud  laugh  that  flutters  the  family 
dinner-table  when  the  infant  son  and  heir  says 
something  precocious  and  impudent. 

"  Who  is  Channing  ?  "  asked  the  Boston  man. 

There  was  a  pause,  and  the  correspondents 
looked  at  Norris. 

"  Channing  is  a  sort  of  a  derelict,"  he  said.  "  He 
drifted  into  New  York  last  Christmas  from  the 
Omaha  Bee*  He's  been  on  pretty  nearly  every 
paper  in  the  country." 

"  What's  he  doing  in  Haiti  ?  " 

"He  went  there  on  the  Admiral  Decatur  to 
write  a  filibustering  story  about  carrying  arms 
across  to  Cuba.  Then  the  war  broke  out  and 
he's  been  trying  to  get  back  to  Key  West,  and 
now,  of  course,  he'll  make  for  Kingston.  He 
cabled  me  yesterday,  at  my  expense,  to  try  and 
get  him  a  job  on  our  paper.  If  the  war  hadn't 
come  on  he  had  a  plan  to  beat  his  way  around  the 
world.  And  he'd  have  done  it,  too.  I  never  saw 
a  man  who  wouldn't  help  Charlie  along,  or  lend 
him  a  dollar."  He  glanced  at  the  faces  about 
him  and  winked  at  the  Boston  man.  cc  They  all 
of  them  look  guilty,  don't  they?"  he  said. 

"Charlie  Channing,"  murmured  the  baseball 
168 


A   Derelict 

reporter,  gently,  as  though  he  were  pronouncing 
die  name  of  a  girl.  He  raised  his  glass.  "Here's 
to  Charlie  Channing,"  he  repeated.  Norris  set 
down  his  empty  glass  and  showed  it  to  the  Boston 
man. 

"  That's  his  only  enemy,"  he  said.  "  Write  ! 
Heavens,  how  that  man  can  write,  and  he'd  al- 
most rather  do  anything  else.  There  isn*t  a 
paper  in  New  York  that  wasn't  glad  to  get  him, 
but  they  couldn't  keep  him  a  week.  It  was  no 
use  talking  to  him.  Talk !  I've  talked  to  him 
until  three  o'clock  in  the  morning.  Why,  it  was 
I  made  him  send  his  first  Chinatown  story  to  the 
International  Magazine,  and  they  took  it  like  a 
flash  and  wrote  him  for  more,  but  he  blew  in  the 
check  they  sent  him  and  didn't  even  answer  their 
letter.  He  said  after  he'd  had  the  fun  of  writing 
a  story,  he  didn't  care  whether  it  was  published 
an  a  Sunday  paper  or  in  white  vellum,  or  never 
published  at  all.  And  so  long  as  he  knew  he 
wrote  it,  he  didn't  care  whether  anyone  else  knew 
at  or  not.  Why,  when  that  English  reviewer—* 
what's  his  name — that  friend  of  Kipling's — passed 
through  New  York,  he  said  to  a  lot  of  us  at  the 
Press  Club, c  You've  got  a  young  man  here  on 
Park  Row— an  opium-eater,  I  should  say,  by  the 
look  of  him,  who  if  he  would  work  and  leave 
whiskey  alone,  would  make  us  all  sweat.'  That's 

169 


A  Derelict 

just  what  he  said,  and  he's  the  best  in  Eng« 
land!" 

cc  Charlie's  a  genius,"  growled  the  baseball  re- 
porter, defiantly.  "I  say,  he's  a  genius." 

The  Boston  man  shook  his  head.  "  My  boy/' 
he  began,  sententiously,  cc  genius  is  nothing  more 
than  hard  work,  and  a  man " 

Norris  slapped  the  table  with  his  hand. 

cc  Oh,  no,  it's  not,"  he  jeered,  fiercely,  cc  and 
don't  you  go  off  believing  it  is,  neither,  I've 
worked.  IVe  worked  twelve  hours  a  day.  Keat- 
ing even  has  worked  eighteen  hours  a  day — all 
his  life — but  we  never  wrote  c  The  Passing  of  the 
Highbinders/  nor  the  c  Ships  that  Never  Came 
Home/  nor  *  Tales  of  the  Tenderloin/  and  we 
never  will.  I'm  a  better  news-gatherer  than 
Charge,  1  can  collect  facts  and  I  can  put  them  to- 
gether well  enough,  too,  so  that  if  a  man  starts  to 
read  my  story  he'll  probably  follow  it  to  the  bot- 
tom of  the  column,  and  he  may  turn  over  the 
page,  too.  But  I  can't  say  the  things,  because  I 
can't  see  the  things  that  Charlie  sees.  Why,  one 
night  we  sent  him  out  on  a  big  railroad-story.  It 
was  a  beat,  we'd  got  it  by  accident,  and  we  had  it 
all  to  ourselves,  but  Charlie  came  across  a  blind 
beggar  on  Broadway  with  a  dead  dog.  The  dog 
had  been  run  over,  and  the  blind  beggar  couldn't 
find  his  way  home  without  him,  and  was  sitting  on 

I7O 


A  Derelict 

the  curb-stone,  weeping  over  the  mongrel. 
when  Charlie  came  back  to  the  office  he  said  he 
couldn't  find  out  anything  about  that  railroad 
deal,  but  that  he'd  write  them  a  dog-story.  Of 
course,  they  were  raging  crazy,  but  he  sat  down 
just  as  though  it  was  no  concern  of  his,  and,  sure 
enough,  he  wrote  the  dog-story.  And  the  next 
day  over  five  hundred  people  stopped  in  at  the 
office  on  their  way  downtown  and  left  dimes  and 
dollars  to  buy  that  man  a  new  dog.  Now,  hard 
work  won't  do  that/' 

Keating  had  been  taking  breakfast  in  the 
ward-room  of  H.  M.  S.  Indefatigable.  As  an 
acquaintance  the  officers  had  not  found  him  an 
undoubted  acquisition,  but  he  was  the  represen- 
tative of  seven  hundred  papers,  and  when  the 
Indefatigable's  ice-machine  broke,  he  had  loaned 
the  officers*  mess  a  hundred  pounds  of  it  from  his 
own  boat. 

The  cruiser's  gig  carried  Keating  to  the  wharf, 
the  crew  tossed  their  oars  and  the  boatswain 
touched  his  cap  and  asked,  mechanically,  "  Shall 
I  return  to  the  ship,  sir  ? " 

Channing,  stretched  on  the  beach,  with  his 
back  to  a  palm-tree,  observed  the  approach  of 
Keating  with  cheerful  approbation. 

^  It  is  gratifying  to  me,"  he  said,  cc  to  see  the 
171 


A  Derelict 

press  treated  with  such  consideration.  You  came 
in  just  like  Cleopatra  in  her  barge.  If  the  flag 
had  been  flying,  and  you  hadn't  steered  so  badly } 
I  should  have  thought  you  were  at  least  an 
admiral.  How  many  guns  does  the  British  Navy 
give  a  Consolidated  Press  reporter  when  he  comes 
over  the  side  ?  " 

Keating  dropped  to  the  sand  and,  crossing  his 
legs  under  him,  began  tossing  shells  at  the  water. 

"They  gave  this  one  a  damned  good  break- 
fast," he  said,  "  and  some  very  excellent  white 
wine.  Of  course,  the  ice-machine  was  broken,  it 
always  is,  but  then  Chablis  never  should  be  iced, 
if  it's  the  real  thing." 

"Chablis!  Ice  1  Hah!"  snorted  Channing. 
**  Listen  to  him  !  Do  you  know  what  I  had  for 
breakfast?" 

Keating  turned  away  uncomfortably  and  looked 
toward  the  ships  in  the  harbor. 

"  Well,  never  mind,"  said  Channing,  yawning 
luxuriously.  "  The  sun  is  bright,  the  sea  is  blue, 
and  the  confidences  of  this  old  palm  are  sooth- 
ing. He's  a  great  old  gossip,  this  palm."  He 
Jooked  up  into  the  rustling  fronds  and  smiled. 
**  He  whispers  me  to  sleep,"  he  went  on,  "  or  he 
talks  me  awake — talks  about  all  sorts  of  things — 
things  he  has  seen — cyclones,  wrecks,  and  strange 
ships  and  Cuban  refugees  and  Spanish  spies  and 

172 


A  Derelict 

iovers  that  meet  here  on  moonlight  nights-  It°s 
always  moonlight  in  Port  Antonio,  isn't  it?"* 

"  You  ought  to  know,  you've  been  here  longer 
than  I,"  said  Keating. 

"  And  how  do  you  like  it,  now  that  you  have 
got  to  know  it  better  ?  Pretty  heavenly  ?  eh  ?  " 

"  Pretty  heavenly  !  "  snorted  Keating.  "  Pretty 
much  the  other  place  !  What  good  am  I  doing  ? 
What's  the  sense  of  keeping  me  here  ?  Cervera 
isn't  going  to  come  out,  and  the  people  at  Wash- 
ington won't  let  Sampson  go  in.  Why,  those 
ships  have  been  there  a  month  now,  and  they'll 
be  there  just  where  they  are  now  when  you  and 
I  are  bald.  I'm  no  use  here.  All  I  do  is  to 
thrash  across  there  every  day  and  eat  up  more 
coal  than  the  whole  squadron  burns  in  a  month. 
Why,  that  tug  of  mine's  costing  the  C.  P.  six 
hundred  dollars  a  day,  and  I'm  not  sending  them 
news  enough  to  pay  for  setting  it  up.  Have 
you  seen  *em  yet  ?  " 

"  Seen  what  ?     Your  stories  ?  ** 

"  No,  the  ships  ! " 

"Yes,  Scudder  took  me  across  once  in  the 
Iduna.  I  haven't  got  a  paper  yet,  so  I  couldn't 
write  anything,  but " 

cc  Well,  you've  seen  all  there  is  to  it,  then ; 
you  wouldn't  see  any  more  if  you  went  over  every 
day.  It's  just  the  same  old  harbor-mouth,  and 


A  Derelict 

the  same  old  Morro  Castle,  and  same  old  ships3 
drifting  up  and  down ;  the  Brooklyn,  full  of 
smoke-stacks,  and  the  New  York,  with  her  two 
bridges,  and  all  the  rest  of  them  looking  just  as 
they've  looked  for  the  last  four  weeks.  There's 
nothing  in  that.  Why  don't  they  send  me  to 
Tampa  with  the  army  and  Shafter — that's  where 
the  story  is.'* 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  Channing,  shaking 
his  head.  "  I  thought  it  was  bully  !  " 

ce  Bully,  what  was  bully  ?  " 

<e  Oh,  the  picture,"  said  Channing,  doubtfully, 
fe  and — and  what  it  meant.  What  struck  me 
about  it  was  that  it  was  so  hot,  and  lazy,  and 
peaceful,  that  they  seemed  to  be  just  drifting 
about,  just  what  you  complain  of.  I  don't  know 
what  I  expected  to  see ;  I  think  I  expected 
they'd  be  racing  around  in  circles,  tearing  up  the 
water  and  throwing  broadsides  at  Morro  Castle 
as  fast  as  fire-crackers. 

ec  But  they  lay  broiling  there  in  the  heat  just  as 
though  they  were  becalmed.  They  seemed  to 
be  asleep  on  their  anchor-chains.  It  reminded 
me  of  a  big  bull-dog  lying  in  the  sun  with  his 
head  on  his  paws  and  his  eyes  shut.  You  think 
he's  asleep,  and  you  try  to  tiptoe  past  him,  but 
when  you're  in  reach  of  his  chain — he's  at  your 
throat,  what  ?  It  seemed  so  funny  to  think  of 

174 


A  Derelict 

our  being  really  at  war.  I  mean  the  United 
States,  and  with  such  an  old-established  firm  as 
Spain.  It  seems  so  presumptuous  in  a  young  re- 
public, as  though  we  were  strutting  around,  sing- 
ing, c  Fm  getting  a  big  boy  now.'  I  felt  like 
saying,  c  Oh,  come  off,  and  stop  playing  you're  a 
world  power,  and  get  back  into  your  red  sash  and 
knickerbockers,  or  you'll  get  spanked  ! '  It  seems 
as  though  we  must  be  such  a  lot  of  amateurs. 
But  when  I  went  over  the  side  of  the  New  York 
I  felt  like  kneeling  down  on  her  deck  and  beg- 
ging every  jackey  to  kick  me.  I  felt  about  as 
useless  as  a  fly  on  a  locomotive-engine.  Ama- 
teurs !  Why,  they  might  have  been  in  the  busi- 
ness since  the  days  of  the  ark  ;  all  of  them  might 
have  been  descended  from  bloody  pirates ;  they 
twisted  those  eight-inch  guns  around  for  us  just 
as  though  they  were  bicycles,  and  the  whole  ship 
moved  and  breathed  and  thought,  too,  like  a 
human  being,  and  all  the  captains  of  the  other 
war-ships  about  her  were  watching  for  her  to  give 
the  word.  All  of  them  stripped  and  eager  and 
ready — like  a  lot  of  jockeys  holding  in  the  big 
race-horses,  and  each  of  them  with  his  eyes  on 
the  starter.  And  I  liked  the  way  they  all  talk 
about  Sampson,  and  the  way  the  ships  move  over 
the  stations  like  parts  of  one  machine,  just  as  he 
had  told  them  to  do. 


A  Derelict 

c<  Scudder  introduced  me  to  him,  and  he  listened 
while  we  did  the  talking,  but  it  was  easy  to  see 
who  was  the  man  in  the  Conning  Tower.  Keat- 
ing— my  boy !  "  Channing  cried,  sitting  upright 
in  his  enthusiasm,  cc  he's  put  a  combination-lock 
on  that  harbor  that  can't  be  picked — and  it'll  work 
whether  Sampson's  asleep  in  his  berth,  or  fifteen 
miles  away,  or  killed  on  the  bridge.  He  doesn't 
have  to  worry,  he  knows  his  trap  will  work — he 
ought  to,  he  set  it." 

Keating  shrugged  his  shoulders,  tolerantly. 

"  Oh,  I  see  that  side  of  it,"  he  assented.  cc  I  see 
all  there  is  in  it  for  you,  the  sort  of  stuff  you  write, 
Sunday-special  stuff,  but  there's  no  news  in  it. 
I'm  not  paid  to  write  mail-letters,  and  I'm  not 
down  here  to  interview  palm-trees  either." 

"  Why,  you  old  fraud  !  "  laughed  Channing. 
*c  You  know  you're  having  the  time  of  your  life 
ftere.  You're  the  pet  of  Kingston  society — you 
know  you  are.  I  only  wish  I  were  half  as  popular. 
I  don't  seem  to  belong,  do  I  ?  I  guess  it's  my 
clothes.  That  English  Colonel  at  Kingston  al- 
ways scowls  at  me  as  though  he'd  like  to  put  me 
in  irons,  and  whenever  I  meet  our  Consul  he 
sees  something  very  peculiar  on  the  horizon- 
tine." 

Keating  frowned  for  a  moment  in  silence,  and 
then  coughed,  consciously* 

176 


A  Derelict 

w  Channing,  **  he  began,  uncomfortably,  "  you 
ought  to  brace  up." 

"  Brace  up  ?  "  asked  Channing. 

"  Well,  it  isn't  fair  to  the  rest  of  us/'  protested 
Keating,  launching  into  his  grievance.  "  There's 
only  a  few  of  us  here,  and  we — we  think  you  ought 
to  see  that  and  not  give  the  crowd  a  bad  name. 
All  the  other  correspondents  have  some  regard 
for — for  their  position  and  for  the  paper,  but  you 
loaf  around  here  looking  like  an  old  tramp — like 
any  old  beach-comber,  and  it  queers  the  rest  of 
us.  Why,  those  English  artillerymen  at  the  Club 
asked  me  about  you,  and  when  I  told  them  you 
were  a  New  York  correspondent  they  made  all 
sorts  of  jokes  about  American  newspapers,  and 
what  could  I  say  ?  " 

Channing  eyed  the  other  man  with  keen  delight. 

"  I  see,  by  Jove  !  I'm  sorry,"  he  said.  But 
the  next  moment  he  laughed,  and  then  apologized, 
remorsefully. 

"  Indeed,  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  begged,  "  but 
it  struck  me  as  a  sort  of — I  had  no  idea  you  fel- 
lows were  such  swells — I  knew  I  was  a  social  out- 
cast, but  I  didn't  know  my  being  a  social  outcast 
was  hurting  anyone  else.  Tell  me  some  more." 

"  Well,  that's  all,"  said  Keating,  suspiciously. 
"  The  fellows  asked  me  to  speak  to  you  about  it 
and  to  tell  you  to  take  a  brace.  Now,  for  in- 

177 


A   Derelict 

stance,  we  have  a  sort  of  mess-table  at  the  hotelj 
and  we'd  like  to  ask  you  to  belong,  but — well — 
you  see  how  it  is — we  have  the  officers  to  lunch 
whenever  they're  on  shore,  and  you're  so  dis- 
reputable " — Keating  scowled  at  Channing,  and 
concluded,  impotently, "  Why  don't  you  get  your- 
self some  decent  clothes  and — and  a  new  hat  ?  " 

Channing  removed  his  hat  to  his  knee  and 
stroked  it  with  affectionate  pity. 

"  It  is  a  shocking  bad  hat,"  he  said.  "  Well, 
go  on." 

c<  Oh,  it's  none  of  my  business,"  exclaimed 
Keating,  impatiently.  "  I'm  just  telling  you 
what  they're  saying.  Now,  there's  the  Cuban 
refugees,  for  instance.  No  one  knows  what 
they're  doing  here,  or  whether  they're  real  Cubans 
or  Spaniards." 

"Well,  what  of  it?" 

"  Why,  the  way  you  go  round  with  them  and 
visit  them,  it's  no  wonder  they  say  you're  a  spy." 

Channing  stared  incredulously,  and  then  threw 
back  his  head  and  laughed  with  a  shout  of  de- 
light. 

"  They  don't,  do  they  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  they  do,  since  you  think  it's  so  funny. 
If  it  hadn't  been  for  us  the  day  you  went  over  to 
Guantanamo  the  marines  would  have  had  you  ar- 
rested and  court-martialed." 


A  Derelict 

Channing's  face  clouded  with  a  quick  frown, 
"  Oh,"  he  exclaimed,  in  a  hurt  voice,  "  they 
couldn't  have  thought  that." 

"  Well,  no,"  Keating  admitted  grudgingly, 
"not  after  the  fight,  perhaps,  but  before  that, 
when  you  were  snooping  around  the  camp  like  a 
Cuban  after  rations."  Channing  recognized  the 
picture  with  a  laugh. 

"  I  do,"  he  said,  "  I  do.  But  you  should  have 
had  me  court-martialed  and  shot ;  it  would  have 
made  a  good  story.  c  Our  reporter  shot  as  a  spy, 
his  last  words  were — '  what  were  my  last  words, 
Keating?" 

Keating  turned  upon  him  with  impatience, 
"  But  why  do  you  do  it?"  he  demanded.  "Why 
don't  you  act  like  the  rest  of  us  ?  Why  do  you 
hang  out  with  all  those  filibusters  and  runaway 
Cubans  ? " 

"  They  have  been  very  kind  to  me,"  said 
Channing,  soberly.  "  They  are  a  very  courteous 
race,  and  they  have  ideas  of  hospitality  which 
make  the  average  New  Yorker  look  like  a  dog 
hiding  a  bone." 

"  Oh,  I  suppose  you  mean  that  for  us,"  de- 
manded Keating.  "  That's  a  slap  at  me,  eh  ?  " 

Channing  gave  a  sigh  and  threw  himself  back 
against  the  trunk  of  the  palm,  with  his  hands 
clasped  behind  his  head. 

170 


A  Derelict 

cc  Oh,  I  wasn't  thinking  of  you  at  all,  Keating," 
he  said.  "  I  don't  consider  you  in  the  least." 
He  stretched  himself  and  yawned  wearily.  "  I've 
got  troubles  of  my  own." 

He  sat  up  suddenly  and  adjusted  the  objection- 
able hat  to  his  head. 

"  Why  don't  you  wire  the  C.  P.,"  he  asked, 
briskly,  "and  see  if  they  don't  want  an  extra 
man  ?  It  won't  cost  you  anything  to  wire,  and  I 
need  the  job,  and  I  haven't  the  money  to  cable." 

"  The  Consolidated  Press,"  began  Keating, 
jealously.  "  Why — well,  you  know  what  the 
Consolidated  Press  is  ?  They  don't  want  descrip- 
tive writers — and  I've  got  all  the  men  I  need." 

Keating  rose  and  stood  hesitating  in  some  em- 
barrassment. cc  I'll  tell  you  what  I  could  do, 
Channing,"  he  said,  "  I  could  take  you  on  as  a 
stoker,  or  steward,  say.  They're  always  desert- 
ing and  mutinying ;  I  have  to  carry  a  gun  on  me 
to  make  them  mind.  How  would  you  like  that? 
Forty  dollars  a  month,  and  eat  with  the  crew  ? " 

For  a  moment  Channing  stood  in  silence, 
smoothing  the  sand  with  the  sole  of  his  shoe. 
When  he  raised  his  head  his  face  was  flushing. 

"  Oh,  thank  you,"  he  said.  "  I  think  I'll  keep 
on  trying  for  a  paper — I'll  try  a  little  longer.  I 
want  to  see  something  of  this  war,  of  course,  and 
if  I'm  not  too  lazy  I'd  like  to  write  something 

180 


A   Derelict 

about  it,  but — well — I'm  much  obliged  to  you, 
anyway." 

"  Of  course,  if  it  were  my  money,  I'd  take  you 
on  at  once,"  said  Keating,  hurriedly. 

Channing  smiled  and  nodded.  "  You're  very 
kind,"  he  answered.  "  Well,  good-by." 

A  half-hour  later,  in  the  smoking-room  of  the 
hotel,  Keating  addressed  himself  to  a  group  of 
correspondents. 

"  There  is  no  doing  anything  with  that  man 
Channing,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  offended  pride. 
"  I  offered  him  a  good  job  and  he  wouldn't  take 
it.  Because  he  got  a  story  in  the  International 
Magazine,  he's  stuck  on  himself,  and  he  won't 
hustle  for  news — he  wants  to  write  pipe-dreams. 
What  the  public  wants  just  now  is  news." 

"  That's  it,"  said  one  of  the  group, "  and  we 
must  give  it  to  them — even  if  we  have  to  fake  it/* 

Great  events  followed  each  other  with  great 
rapidity.  The  army  ceased  beating  time,  shook 
itself  together,  adjusted  its  armor  and  moved,  and, 
to  the  delight  of  the  flotilla  of  press-boats  at  Port 
Antonio,  moved,  not  as  it  had  at  first  intended,  to 
the  north  coast  of  Cuba,  but  to  Santiago,  where 
its  transports  were  within  reach  of  their  mega- 
phones. 

"  Why,  everything's  coming  our  way  now ! " 
exclaimed  the  World  manager  in  ecstasy.  "  We've 

181 


A   Derelict 

got  the  transports  to  starboard  at  Siboney,  and 
the  war-ships  to  port  at  Santiago,  and  all  we'll 
need  to  do  is  to  sit  on  the  deck  with  a  field-glass, 
and  take  down  the  news  with  both  hands." 

Channing  followed  these  events  with  envy. 
Once  or  twice,  as  a  special  favor,  the  press-boats 
carried  him  across  to  Siboney  and  Daiquiri,  and 
he  was  able  to  write  stories  of  what  he  saw  there ; 
of  the  landing  of  the  army,  of  the  wounded  after 
the  Guasimas  fight,  and  of  the  fever-camp  at 
Siboney.  His  friends  on  the  press-boats  sent  this 
work  home  by  mail  on  the  chance  that  the  Sunday 
editor  might  take  it  at  space  rates.  But  mail 
matter  moved  slowly  and  the  army  moved  quickly, 
and  events  crowded  so  closely  upon  each  other 
that  Channing's  stories,  when  they  reached  New 
York,  were  ancient  history  and  were  unpublished, 
and,  what  was  of  more  importance  to  him,  unpaid 
for.  He  had  no  money  now,  and  he  had  become 
a  beach-comber  in  the  real  sense  of  the  word.  He 
slept  the  warm  nights  away  among  the  bananas 
and  cocoanuts  on  the  Fruit  Company's  wharf, 
and  by  calling  alternately  on  his  Cuban  exiles  and 
the  different  press-boats,  he  was  able  to  obtain  a 
meal  a  day  without  arousing  any  suspicions  in 
the  minds  of  his  hosts  that  it  was  his  only  one. 

He  was  sitting  on  the  stringer  of  the  pier-head 
one  morning,  waiting  for  a  press-boat  from  the 

182 


A   Derelict 

"  front,"  when  the  Three  Friends  ran  in  and 
lowered  her  dingy,  and  the  World  manager  came 
ashore,  clasping  a  precious  bundle  of  closely 
written  cable-forms.  Channing  scrambled  to  his 
feet  and  hailed  him. 

"  Have  you  heard  from  the  chief  about  me 
yet  ?  "  he  asked.  The  World  man  frowned  and 
stammered,  and  then,  taking  Channing  by  the 
arm,  hurried  with  him  toward  the  cable-office. 

"  Charlie,  I  think  they're  crazy  up  there,"  he 
began,  "  they  think  they  know  it  all.  Here  I  am 
on  the  spot,  but  they  think " 

"  You  mean  they  won't  have  me,"  said  CLan- 
ning.  "  But  why  ?  "  he  asked,  patiently.  "  They 
used  to  give  me  all  the  space  I  wanted." 

a  Yes,  I  know,  confound  them,  and  so  they 
should  now,"  said  the  World  man,  with  sympa- 
thetic indignation.  "  But  here's  their  cable  ;  you 
can  see  it's  not  my  fault."  He  read  the  message 
aloud.  "  Channing,  no.  Not  safe,  take  reliable 
man  from  Siboney."  He  folded  the  cablegram 
around  a  dozen  others  and  stuck  it  back  in  his 
hip-pocket. 

"What  queered  you,  Charlie,"  he  explained, 
importantly,  "was  that  last  break  of  yours,  New 
Year's,  when  you  didn't  turn  up  for  a  week.  It 
was  once  too  often,  and  the  chief's  had  it  in  for 
you  ever  since.  You  remember  ?  " 

'8-3 


A  Derelict 

Channing  screwed  up  his  lips  in  an  effort  of 
recollection. 

"  Yes,  I  remember/'  he  answered,  slowly.  "  It 
began  on  New  Year's  eve  in  Perry's  drug-store, 
and  I  woke  up  a  week  later  in  a  hack  in  Boston. 
So  I  didn't  have  such  a  run  for  my  money,  did  I  ? 
Not  good  enough  to  have  to  pay  for  it  like  this. 
I  tell  you,"  he  burst  out  suddenly,  "  I  feel  like 
hell  being  left  out  of  this  war,  with  all  the  rest  of 
the  boys  working  so  hard.  If  it  weren't  playing 
it  low  down  on  the  fellows  tjiat  have  been  in  it 
from  the  start,  I'd  like  to  enlist.  But  they  en- 
listed for  glory,  and  I'd  only  do  it  because  I  can't 
see  the  war  any  other  way,  and  it  doesn't  seem 
fair  to  them.  What  do  you  think  ?  " 

"Oh,  don't  do  that,"  protested  the  World 
manager.  "  You  stick  to  your  own  trade.  We'll 
get  you  something  to  do.  Have  you  tried  the 
Consolidated  Press  yet  ? " 

Channing  smiled  grimly  at  the  recollection. 

"  Yes,  I  tried  it  first." 

"  It  would  be  throwing  pearls  to  swine  to  have 
you  write  for  them,  I  know,  but  they're  using  so 
many  men  now.  I  should  think  you  could  get 
on  their  boat." 

"  No,  I  saw  Keating,"  Channing  explained. 
"  He  said  I  could  come  along  as  a  stoker,  and  I 

guess  I'll  take  him  up,  it  seems " 

184 


A  Derelict 

*c  Keating  said — wnat  ?  "  exclaimed  the  World 
man.  "Keating?  Why,  he  stands  to  lose  his 
own  job,  if  he  isn't  careful.  If  it  wasn't  that  he's 
just  married,  the  C.  P.  boys  would  havt  reported 
him  a  dozen  times." 

"  Reported  him,  what  for?  " 

"  Why — you  Know.     His  old  complaint.** 

"  Oh,  that,"  said  Channing.  "  My  old  com- 
plaint ? "  he  added. 

"  Well,  yes,  but  Keating  hasn't  been  sober  for 
two  weeks,  and  he'd  have  fallen  down  on  the 
Guasimas  story  if  those  men  hadn't  pulled  him 
through.  They  had  to,  because  they're  in  the 
syndicate.  He  ought  to  go  shoot  himself;  he's 
only  been  married  three  months  and  he's  hand- 
ling the  biggest  piece  of  news  the  country's  had  in 
thirty  years,  and  he  can't  talk  straight.  There's 
a  time  for  everything,  I  say,"  growled  the  World 
man. 

"  It  takes  it  out  of  a  man,  this  boat-work,'* 
Channing  ventured,  in  extenuation.  "  It's  very 
hard  on  him." 

"You  bet  it  is,"  agreed  the  World  manager, 
with  enthusiasm.  "  Sloshing  about  in  those  waves, 
sea-sick  mostly,  and  wet  all  the  time,  and  with  a 
mutinous  crew,  and  so  afraid  you'll  miss  some- 
thing that  you  can't  write  what  you  have  got." 
Then  he  added,  as  an  after-thought,  cCAnd  our 

185 


A  Derelict 

cruisers  thinking  you're  a  Spanish  torpedo-boat 
and  chucking  shells  at  you." 

"  No  wonder  Keating  drinks,"  Channing  said, 
gravely.  "  You  make  it  seem  almost  necessary." 

Many  thousand  American  soldiers  had  lost 
themselves  in  a  jungle,  and  had  broken  out  of  it 
at  the  foot  of  San  Juan  Hill.  Not  wishing  to 
return  into  the  jungle,  they  took  the  hill.  On  the 
day  they  did  this  Channing  had  the  good  fortune 
to  be  in  Siboney.  The  World  man  had  carried 
him  there  and  asked  him  to  wait  around  the  water- 
front while  he  went  up  to  the  real  front,  thirteen 
miles  inland.  Channing's  duty  was  to  signal  the 
press-boat  when  the  first  despatch-rider  rode  in 
with  word  that  the  battle  was  on.  The  World 
man  would  have  liked  to  ask  Channing  to  act 
as  his  despatch-rider,  but  he  did  not  do  so,  be- 
cause the  despatch-riders  were  either  Jamaica 
negroes  or  newsboys  from  Park  Row — and  he  re- 
membered that  Keating  had  asked  Channing  to  be 
his  stoker. 

Channing  tramped  through  the  damp,  ill- 
smelling  sand  of  the  beach,  sick  with  self-pity. 
On  the  other  side  of  those  glaring,  inscrutable 
mountains,  a  battle,  glorious,  dramatic,  and  ter- 
rible, was  going  forward,  and  he  was  thirteen  miles 
away.  He  was  at  the  base,  with  the  supplies,  the 
sick,  and  the  skulkers. 

186 


A  Derelict 

It  was  cruelly  hot.  The  heat-waves  flashed 
over  the  sea  until  the  transports  in  the  harbor 
quivered  like  pictures  on  a  biograph.  From  the 
refuse  of  company  kitchens,  from  reeking  huts, 
from  thousands  of  empty  cans,  rose  foul,  enervat- 
ing odors,  which  deadened  the  senses  like  a  drug. 
The  atmosphere  steamed  with  a  heavy,  moist  hu- 
midity. Channing  staggered  and  sank  down  sud- 
denly on  a  pile  of  railroad-ties  in  front  of  the 
commissary's  depot.  There  were  some  Cubans 
seated  near  him,  dividing  their  Government  rationSj 
and  the  sight  reminded  him  that  he  had  had  noth- 
ing to  eat.  He  walked  over  to  the  wide  door  of 
the  freight-depot,  where  a  white-haired,  kindly 
faced,  and  perspiring  officer  was,  with  his  own 
hands,  serving  out  canned  beef  to  a  line  of  Cubans, 
The  officer's  flannel  shirt  was  open  at  the  throat* 
The  shoulder-straps  of  a  colonel  were  fastened  to 
it  by  safety-pins.  Channing  smiled  at  him  uneasily,, 

"  Could  I  draw  on  you  for  some  rations  ? "  he 
asked.  "  I'm  from  the  Three  Friends.  I'm  not 
one  of  their  regular  accredited  correspondents," 
he  added,  conscientiously,  "  I'm  just  helping  them 
for  to-day." 

"  Haven't  you  got  a  correspondent's  pass  ? " 
asked  the  officer.  He  was  busily  pouring  square 
hardtack  down  the  throat  of  a  saddle-bag  a  Cuban 
soldier  held  open  before  him. 

187 


A  Derelict 

<c  No,"  said  Channing,  turning  away, cc  I'm  just 
helping." 

The  officer  looked  after  him,  and  what  he  saw 
caused  him  to  reach  under  the  counter  for  a  tin 
cup  and  a  bottle  of  lime-juice. 

"Here,"  he  said,  "drink  this.  What's  the 
matter  with  you — fever?  Come  in  here  out  of 
that  sun.  You  can  lie  down  on  my  cot,  if  you 
like." 

Channing  took  the  tin  cup  and  swallowed  a 
warm  mixture  of  boiled  water  and  acrid  lime-juice. 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said,  "  but  I  must  keep 
watch  for  the  first  news  from  the  front." 

A  man  riding  a  Government  mule  appeared  on 
the  bridge  of  the  lower  trail,  and  came  toward 
them  at  a  gallop.  He  was  followed  and  sur- 
rounded by  a  hurrying  mob  of  volunteers,  hos- 
pital stewards,  and  Cubans. 

The  Colonel  vaulted  the  counter  and  ran  to 
meet  him. 

"  This  looks  like  news  from  the  front  now,"  he 
cried. 

The  man  on  the  mule  was  from  civil  life.  His 
eyes  bulged  from  their  sockets  and  his  face  was 
purple.  The  sweat  ran  over  it  and  glistened  on 
the  cords  of  his  thick  neck. 

"  They're  driving  us  back ! "  he  shrieked. 
w  Chaffee's  killed,  an'  Roosevelt's  killed,  an'  the 

188 


A  Derelict 

whole  army's  beaten ! "  He  waved  his  arms 
wildly  toward  the  glaring,  inscrutable  mountains. 
The  volunteers  and  stevedores  and  Cubans  heard 
him,  open-mouthed  and  with  panic-stricken  eyes. 
In  the  pitiless  sunlight  he  was  a  hideous  and  awful 
spectacle. 

"  They're  driving  us  into  the  sea  !  "  he  foamed. 

"  We've  got  to  get  out  of  here,  they're  just  be- 
hind me.  The  army's  running  for  its  life.  They're 
running  away ! " 

Channing  saw  the  man  dimly,  through  a  cloud 
that  came  between  him  and  the  yellow  sunlight. 
The  man  in  the  saddle  swayed,  the  group  about 
him  swayed,  like  persons  on  the  floor  of  a  vast 
ball-room.  Inside  he  burned  with  a  mad,  fierce 
hatred  for  this  shrieking  figure  in  the  saddle.  He 
raised  the  tin  cup  and  hurled  it  so  that  it  hit  the 
man's  purple  face. 

"  You  lie  ! "  Channing  shouted,  staggering. 
"  You  lie  !  You're  a  damned  coward.  You  lie  !  " 
He  heard  his  voice  repeating  this  in  different 
places  at  greater  distances.  Then  the  cloud  closed 
about  him,  shutting  out  the  man  in  the  saddle, 
and  the  glaring,  inscrutable  mountains,  and  the 
ground  at  his  feet  rose  and  struck  him  in  the 
face. 

Channing  knew  he  was  on  a  boat  because  it 
lifted  and  sank  with  him,  and  he  could  hear  the 

189 


A  Derelict 

rush  of  her  engines.  When  he  opened  his  eyes 
he  was  in  the  wheel-house  of  the  Three  Friends, 
and  her  captain  was  at  the  wheel,  smiling  down  at 
him.  Channing  raised  himself  on  his  elbow. 

"  The  despatch-rider  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  That's  all  right,"  said  the  captain,  soothingly. 
"  Don't  you  worry.  He  come  along  same  time 
you  fell,  and  brought  you  out  to  us.  What  ailed 
you — sunstroke  ? " 

Channing  sat  up.     cc  I  guess  so,"  he  said. 

When  the  Three  Friends  reached  Port  Antonio* 
Channing  sought  out  the  pile  of  coffee-bags  on 
which  he  slept  at  night  and  dropped  upon  them. 
Before  this  he  had  been  careful  to  avoid  the  place 
in  the  daytime,  so  that  no  one  might  guess  that 
it  was  there  that  he  slept  at  night,  but  this  day  he 
felt  that  if  he  should  drop  in  the  gutter  he  would 
not  care  whether  anyone  saw  him  there  or  not. 
His  limbs  were  hot  and  heavy  and  refused  to 
support  him,  his  bones  burned  like  quicklime. 

The  next  morning,  with  the  fever  still  upon 
him,  he  hurried  restlessly  between  the  wharves 
and  the  cable-office,  seeking  for  news.  There  was 
much  of  it ;  it  was  great  and  trying  news,  the  sit- 
uation outside  of  Santiago  was  grim  and  critical. 
The  men  who  had  climbed  San  Juan  Hill  were 
clinging  to  it  like  sailors  shipwrecked  on  a  reef  un- 
willing to  remain,  but  unable  to  depart.  If  they 

190 


A   Derelict 

attacked  the  city  Cervera  promised  to  send  it 
crashing  about  their  ears.  They  would  enter 
Santiago  only  to  find  it  in  ruins.  If  they  aban- 
doned the  hill,  2,000  killed  and  wounded  would 
have  been  sacrificed  in  vain. 

The  war-critics  of  the  press-boats  and  of  the 
Twitchell  House  saw  but  two  courses  left  open. 
Either  Sampson  must  force  the  harbor  and  de- 
stroy the  squadron,  and  so  make  it  possible  for 
the  army  to  enter  the  city,  or  the  army  must  be 
reinforced  with  artillery  and  troops  in  sufficient 
numbers  to  make  it  independent  of  Sampson  and 
indifferent  to  Cervera. 

On  the  night  of  July  ad,  a  thousand  lies,  a 
thousand  rumors,  a  thousand  prophecies  rolled 
through  the  streets  of  Port  Antonio,  were  filed  at 
the  cable-office,  and  flashed  to  the  bulletin-boards 
of  New  York  City. 

That  morning,  so  they  told,  the  batteries  on 
Morro  Castle  had  sunk  three  of  Sampson's  ships ; 
the  batteries  on  Morro  Castle  had  surrendered  to 
Sampson ;  General  Miles  with  8,000  reinforce- 
ments had  sailed  from  Charleston ;  eighty  guns 
had  started  from  Tampa  Bay,  they  would  occupy 
the  mountains  opposite  Santiago  and  shell  the 
Spanish  fleet ;  the  authorities  at  Washington  had 
at  last  consented  to  allow  Sampson  to  run  the 
forts  and  mines,  and  attack  the  Spanish  fleet ;  the 

191 


A  Derelict 

army  had  not  been  fed  for  two  days,  the  Spaniards 
had  cut  it  off  from  its  base  at  Siboney  ;  the  army 
would  eat  its  Fourth  of  July  dinner  in  the  Gov- 
ernor's Palace ;  the  army  was  in  full  retreat ;  the 
army  was  to  attack  at  daybreak. 

When  Channing  turned  in  under  the  fruit-shed 
on  the  night  of  July  zd,  there  was  but  one  press- 
boat  remaining  in  the  harbor.  That  was  the 
Consolidated  Press  boat,  and  Keating  himself 
was  on  the  wharf,  signalling  for  his  dingy.  Chan- 
ning sprang  to  his  feet  and  ran  toward  him,  call- 
ing him  by  name.  The  thought  that  he  must 
for  another  day  remain  so  near  the  march  of 
great  events  and  yet  not  see  and  feel  them  for 
himself,  was  intolerable.  He  felt  if  it  would  pay 
his  passage  to  the  coast  of  Cuba,  there  was  no 
sacrifice  to  which  he  would  not  stoop. 

Keating  watched  him  approach,  but  without 
sign  of  recognition.  His  eyes  were  heavy  and 
bloodshot. 

"  Keating/'  Channing  begged,  as  he  halted, 
panting,  "won't  you  take  me  with  you?  I'll 
not  be  in  the  way,  and  I'll  stoke  or  wait  on  table, 
or  anything  you  want,  if  you'll  only  take  me." 

Keating's  eyes  opened  and  closed,  sleepily. 
He  removed  an  unlit  cigar  from  his  mouth  and 
shook  the  wet  end  of  it  at  Channing,  as  though 
it  were  an  accusing  finger. 

IQ2 


A  Derelict 

<c  I  know  your  game,"  he  murmured,  thickly 
cc  You  haven't  got  a  boat  and  you  want  to  steal  a 
ride  on  mine — for  your  paper.  You  can't  do  it? 
you  see,  you  can't  do  it." 

One  of  the  crew  of  the  dingy  climbed  up  the 
gangway  of  the  wharf  and  took  Keating  by  the 
elbow.  He  looked  at  him  and  then  at  Channing 
and  winked.  He  was  apparently  accustomed  to 
this  complication.  "  I  haven't  got  a  paper,  Keat- 
ing," Channing  argued,  soothingly.  "  Who  have 
you  got  to  help  you  ? "  he  asked.  It  came  to 
him  that  there  might  be  on  the  boat  some  Philip 
sober,  to  whom  he  could  appeal  from  Philip 
drunk. 

"  I  haven't  got  anyone  to  help  me,"  Keating 
answered,  with  dignity.  "  I  don't  need  anyone 
to  help  me."  He  placed  his  hand  heavily  and 
familiarly  on  the  shoulder  of  the  deck-hand. 
"You  see  that  man?"  he  asked.  "You  see 
tha'  man,  do  you  ?  Well,  tha*  man  he's  too 
good  for  me  an'  you.  Tha'  man — used  to  be 
the  best  reporter  in  New  York  City,  an'  he  was 
too  good  to  hustle  for  news,  an*  now  he's — now 
he  can't  get  a  job — see?  Nobody'll  have  him, 
see  ?  He's  got  to  come  and  be  a  stoker." 

He  stamped  his  foot  with  indignation. 

"  You  come  an*  be  a  stoker,"  he  commanded. 
*  How  long  you  think  I'm  going  to  wait  for  a 


A  Derelict 

stoker?  You  stoker,  come  on  board  and  be  a 
stoker." 

Channing  smiled,  guiltily,  at  his  good  fortune. 
He  jumped  into  the  bow  of  the  dingy,  and  Keat- 
ing fell  heavily  in  the  stern. 

The  captain  of  the  press-boat  helped  Keating 
safely  to  a  bunk  in  the  cabin  and  received  his 
instructions  to  proceed  to  Santiago  Harbor 
Then  he  joined  Channing.  "  Mr.  Keating  is 
feeling  bad  to-night.  That  bombardment  off 
Morro,"  he  explained,  tactfully,  cc  was  too  excit- 
ing. We  always  let  him  sleep  going  across,  and 
when  we  get  there  he's  fresh  as  a  daisy.  What's 
this  he  tell's  me  of  your  doing  stoking  ? " 

"  I  thought  there  might  be  another  fight  to- 
morrow, so  I  said  I'd  come  as  a  stoker." 

The  captain  grinned. 

"  Our  Sam,  that  deck-hand,  was  telling  me. 
He  said  Mr.  Keating  put  it  on  you,  sort  of  to 
spite  you — is  that  so  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  wanted  to  come,"  said  Channing. 

The  captain  laughed,  comprehendingly.  **  I 
guess  we'll  be  in  a  bad  way,"  he  said,  "  when  we 
need  you  in  the  engine-room."  He  settled  him- 
self for  conversation,  with  his  feet  against  the  rail 
and  his  thumbs  in  his  suspenders.  The  lamps 
of  Port  Antonio  were  sinking  into  the  water,  the 
moonlight  was  flooding  the  deck. 

194 


A  Derelict 

<c  That  was  quite  something  of  a  bombardment 
Sampson  put  up  against  Morro  Castle  this  morn- 
ing," he  began,  critically.  He  spoke  of  bom- 
bardments from  the  full  experience  of  a  man  who 
had  seen  shells  strike  off  Coney  Island  from  the 
proving-grounds  at  Sandy  Hook.  But  Chan- 
ning  heard  him,  eagerly.  He  begged  the  tugboat- 
captain  to  tell  him  what  it  looked  like,  and  as  the 
captain  told  him  he  filled  it  in  and  saw  it  as  it 
really  was. 

"  Perhaps  they'll  bombard  again  to-morrow," 
he  hazarded,  hopefully. 

"  We  can't  tell  till  we  see  how  they're  placed 
on  the  station,"  the  captain  answered.  "  If  there's 
any  firing  we  ought  to  hear  it  about  eight  o'clock 
to-morrow  morning.  We'll  hear  'em  before  we 


see  'em.'1 


Channing's  conscience  began  to  tweak  him.  It 
was  time,  he  thought,  that  Keating  should  be 
aroused  and  brought  up  to  the  reviving  air  of  the 
sea,  but  when  he  reached  the  foot  of  the  com- 
panion-ladder, he  found  that  Keating  was  already 
awake  and  in  the  act  of  drawing  the  cork  from  a 
bottle.  His  irritation  against  Channing  had  evap- 
orated and  he  greeted  him  with  sleepy  good-humor. 

"Why,  it's  olf  Charlie  Channing,"  he  ex- 
claimed, drowsily.  Channing  advanced  upon 
him  swiftly, 

195 


A   Derelict 

"  Here,  you've  had  enough  of  that ! M  he  com- 
manded. "  We'll  be  off  Morro  by  breakfast-time= 
You  don't  want  that." 

Keating,  giggling  foolishly,  pushed  him  from 
him  and  retreated  with  the  bottle  toward  his  berth, 
He  lurched  into  it,  rolled  over  with  his  face  to 
the  ship's  side,  and  began  breathing  heavily. 

"  You  leave  me  'lone,"  he  murmured,  from  the 
darkness  of  the  bunk.  "  You  mind  your  own 
business,  you  leave  me  'lone." 

Channing  returned  to  the  bow  and  placed  the 
•situation  before  the  captain.  That  gentleman  did 
not  hesitate.  He  disappeared  down  the  com- 
panion-way, and,  when  an  instant  later  he  returned, 
liurled  a  bottle  over  the  ship's  side. 

The  next  morning  when  Channing  came  on 
deck  the  land  was  just  in  sight,  a  rampart  of  dark 
.green  mountains  rising  in  heavy  masses  against 
the  bright,  glaring  blue  of  the  sky.  He  strained 
'his  eyes  for  the  first  sight  of  the  ships,  and  his 
<ears  for  the  faintest  echoes  of  distant  firing,  but 
there  was  no  sor.nd  save  the  swift  rush  of  the 
waters  at  the  bc#.  The  sea  lay  smooth  and  flat 
before  him,  the  sun  flashed  upon  it ;  the  calm  and 
hush  of  early  morning  hung  over  the  whole  coast 
of  Cuba. 

An  hour  later  the  captain  came  forward  and 
stood  at  his  elbow, 

196 


A  Derelict 

cc  How's  Keating  ?  "  Channing  asked.  "  I  tried 
to  wake  him,  but  I  couldn't." 

The  captain  kept  his  binoculars  to  his  eyes,  and 
shut  his  lips  grimly.  "  Mr.  Keating's  very  bad," 
he  said.  "He  had  another  bottle  hidden  some- 
where, and  all  last  night — "  he  broke  off  with  a 
relieved  sigh.  "  It's  lucky  for  him,"  he  added, 
lowering  the  glasses, "  that  there'll  be  no  fight  to- 
day." 

Channing  gave  a  gasp  of  disappointment* 
<c  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  he  protested. 

"  You  can  look  for  yourself,"  said  the  captain^ 
handing  him  the  glasses.  "  They're  at  their  same 
old  stations.  There'll  be  no  bombardment  to-day. 
That's  the  Iowa,  nearest  us,  the  Oregon's  to  star- 
board of  her,  and  the  next  is  the  Indiana.  That: 
little  fellow  close  under  the  land  is  the  Glouces- 
ter." 

He  glanced  up  at  the  mast  to  see  that  the  press- 
boat's  signal  was  conspicuous,  they  were  drawing 
within  range. 

With  the  naked  eye,  Channing  could  see  the 
monster,  mouse-colored  war-ships,  basking  in  the 
sun,  solemn  and  motionless  in  a  great  crescent, 
with  its  one  horn  resting  off  the  harbor-mouth. 
They  made  great  blots  on  the  sparkling,  glancing 
surface  of  the  water.  Above  each  superstructure, 
fcheir  fighting-tops,  giant  davits,  funnels,  and  gib- 

197 


A  Derelict 

bet-like  yards  twisted  into  the  air,  fantastic 
incomprehensible,  but  the  bulk  below  seemed  to 
rest  solidly  on  the  bottom  of  the  ocean,  like  an 
island  of  lead.  The  muzzles  of  their  guns  peered 
from  the  turrets  as  from  ramparts  of  rock. 

Channing  gave  a  sigh  of  admiration. 

"  Don't  tell  me  they  move,"  he  said.  "They're 
not  ships,  they're  fortresses  !  " 

On  the  shore  there  was  no  sign  of  human  life 
nor  of  human  habitation.  Except  for  the  Spanish 
flag  floating  over  the  streaked  walls  of  Morro,  and 
the  tiny  blockhouse  on  every  mountain-top,  the 
squadron  might  have  been  anchored  off  a  deserted 
coast.  The  hills  rose  from  the  water's  edge  like 
a  wall,  their  peaks  green  and  glaring  in  the  sun, 
their  valleys  dark  with  shadows.  Nothing  moved 
upon  the  white  beach  at  their  feet,  no  smoke  rose 
from  their  ridges,  not  even  a  palm  stirred.  The 
great  range  slept  in  a  blue  haze  of  heat.  But  only 
a  few  miles  distant,  masked  by  its  frowning  front, 
lay  a  gayly  colored,  red-roofed  city,  besieged  by 
encircling  regiments,  a  broad  bay  holding  a  squad- 
ron of  great  war-ships,  and  gliding  cat-like  through 
its  choked  undergrowth  and  crouched  among  the 
fronds  of  its  motionless  palms  were  the  ragged 
patriots  of  the  Cuban  army,  silent,  watchful,  wait- 
ing. But  the  great  range  gave  no  sign.  It 
frowned  in  the  sunlight,  grim  and  impenetrable. 


A  Derelict 

"  It's  Sunday,"  exclaimed  the  captain.  He 
pointed  with  his  finger  at  the  decks  of  the  battle- 
ships, where  hundreds  of  snow-white  figures  had 
gone  to  quarters.  "  It's  church  service,"  he  said, 
c<  or  it's  general  inspection." 

Channing  looked  at  his  watch.  It  was  thirty 
minutes  past  nine.  "  It's  church  service/'  he 
said.  "  I  can  see  them  carrying  out  the  chaplain's 
reading-desk  on  the  Indiana."  The  press-boat 
pushed  her  way  nearer  into  the  circle  of  battle- 
ships until  their  leaden-hued  hulls  towered  high 
above  her.  On  the  deck  of  each,  the  ship's  com- 
pany stood,  ranged  in  motionless  ranks.  The  calm 
of  a  Sabbath  morning  hung  about  them,  the  sun 
fell  upon  them  like  a  benediction,  and  so  still  was 
the  air  that  those  on  the  press-boat  could  hear, 
from  the  stripped  and  naked  decks,  the  voices  of 
the  men  answering  the  roll-call  in  rising  monotone, 
"one,  two,  three,  four;  one,  two,  three,  four" 
The  white-clad  sailors  might  have  been  a  chorus 
of  surpliced  choir-boys. 

But,  up  above  them,  the  battle-flags,  slumber- 
ing at  the  mast-heads,  stirred  restlessly,  and  whim- 
pered in  their  sleep. 

Out  through  the  crack  in  the  wall  of  mountains, 
where  the  sea  runs  in  to  meet  the  waters  of  San- 
tiago Harbor,  and  from  behind  the  shield  of 
Morro  Castle,  a  great,  gray  ship,  like  a  great,  gray 

199 


A  Derelict 

rat,  stuck  out  her  nose  and  peered  about  her,  and 
then  struck  boldly  for  the  open  sea.  High  before 
her  she  bore  the  gold  and  blood-red  flag  of  Spain, 
and,  like  a  fugitive  leaping  from  behind  his  prison- 
walls,  she  raced  forward  for  her  freedom,  to  give 
battle,  to  meet  her  death. 

A  shell  from  the  Iowa  shrieked  its  warning  in 
a  shrill  crescendo,  a  flutter  of  flags  painted  their 
message  against  the  sky.  "The  enemy's  ships 
are  coming  out,"  they  signalled,  and  the  ranks  of 
white-clad  figures  which  the  moment  before  stood 
motionless  on  the  decks,  broke  into  thousands  of 
separate  beings  who  flung  themselves,  panting, 
down  the  hatchways,  or  sprang,  cheering,  to  the 
fighting-tops. 

Heavily,  but  swiftly,  as  islands  slip  into  the 
water  when  a  volcano  shakes  the  ocean-bed,  the 
great  battle-ships  buried  their  bows  in  the  sea, 
their  sides  ripped  apart  with  flame  and  smoke, 
the  thunder  of  their  guns  roared  and  beat  against 
the  mountains,  and,  from  the  shore,  the  Spanish 
forts  roared  back  at  them,  until  the  air  between 
was  split  and  riven.  The  Spanish  war-ships  were 
already  scudding  clouds  of  smoke,  pierced  with 
flashes  of  red  flame,  and  as  they  fled,  fighting, 
their  batteries  rattled  with  unceasing,  feverish 
fury.  But  the  guns  of  the  American  ships, 
straining  in  pursuit,  answered  steadily,  carefully, 

200 


A  Derelict 

with  relentless  accuracy,  with  cruel  persistence. 
At  regular  intervals  they  boomed  above  the  hur- 
ricane of  sound,  like  great  bells  tolling  for  the 
dead. 

It  seemed  to  Channing  that  he  had  3ived 
through  many  years ;  that  the  strain  of  the 
spectacle  would  leave  its  mark  upon  his  nerves 
forever.  He  had  been  buffeted  and  beaten  by  a 
storm  of  all  the  great  emotions  ;  pride  of  race  and 
country,  pity  for  the  dead,  agony  for  the  dying, 
who  clung  to  blistering  armor-plates,  or  sank  to 
suffocation  in  the  sea;  the  lust  of  the  hunter, 
when  the  hunted  thing  is  a  fellow-man  ;  the  joys 
of  danger  and  of  excitement,  when  the  shells 
lashed  the  waves  about  him,  and  the  triumph  of 
victory,  final,  overwhelming  and  complete. 

Four  of  the  enemy's  squadron  had  struck  their 
colors,  two  were  on  the  beach,  broken  and  burn- 
ing, two  had  sunk  to  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  two 
were  in  abject  flight.  Three  battle-ships  were 
hammering  them  with  thirteen-inch  guns.  The 
battle  was  won. 

"  It's  all  over,"  Channing  said.  His  tone 
questioned  his  own  words. 

The  captain  of  the  tugboat  was  staring  at  the 
face  of  his  silver  watch,  as  though  it  were  a  thing 
bewitched.  He  was  pale  and  panting.  He  looked 
at  Channing,  piteously,  as  though  he  doubted  his 

201 


A  Derelict 

own  senses,  and  turned  the  face  of  the  watch 
toward  him. 

"  Twenty  minutes  !  "  Channing  said.  "  Good 
God  !  Twenty  minutes  !  " 

He  had  been  to  hell  and  back  again  in  twenty 
minutes.  He  had  seen  an  empire,  which  had 
begun  with  Christopher  Columbus  and  which  had 
spread  over  two  continents,  wiped  off  the  map  in 
twenty  minutes.  The  captain  gave  a  sudden  cry 
of  concern.  "  Mr.  Keating,"  he  gasped.  "  Oh, 
Lord,  but  I  forgot  Mr.  Keating.  Where  is  Mr. 
Keating  ? " 

"  I  went  below  twice,"  Channing  answered. 
"He's  insensible.  See  what  you  can  do  with 
him,  but  first — take  me  to  the  Iowa.  The  Con- 
solidated Press  will  want  the  c  facts/' 

In  the  dark  cabin  the  captain  found  Keating  on 
the  floor,  where  Channing  had  dragged  him,  and 
dripping  with  the  water  which  Channing  had 
thrown  in  his  face.  He  was  breathing  heavily, 
comfortably.  He  was  not  concerned  with  battles. 

With  a  megaphone,  Channing  gathered  his  facts 
from  an  officer  of  the  Iowa,  who  looked  like  a 
chimney-sweep,  and  who  was  surrounded  by  a 
crew  of  half-naked  pirates,  with  bodies  streaked 
with  sweat  and  powder. 

Then  he  ordered  all  steam  for  Port  Antonio, 
and,  going  forward  to  the  chart-room,  seated  him- 

202 


A  Derelict 

self  at  the  captain's  desk,  and,  pushing  the  cap< 
tain's  charts  to  the  floor,  spread  out  his  elbows, 
and  began  to  write  the  story  of  his  life. 

In  the  joy  of  creating  it,  he  was  lost  to  all 
about  him.  He  did  not  know  that  the  engines, 
driven  to  the  breaking-point,  were  filling  the  ship 
with  their  groans  and  protests,  that  the  deck  be- 
neath his  feet  was  quivering  like  the  floor  of  a 
planing-mill,  nor  that  his  fever  was  rising  again, 
and  feeding  on  his  veins.  The  turmoil  of  leap- 
ing engines  and  of  throbbing  pulses  was  confused 
with  the  story  he  was  writing,  and  while  his  mind 
was  inflamed  with  pictures  of  warring  battle-ships, 
his  body  was  swept  by  the  fever,  which  overran 
him  like  an  army  of  tiny  mice,  touching  his  hot 
skin  with  cold,  tingling  taps  of  their  scampering  feet. 

From  time  to  time  the  captain  stopped  at  the 
door  of  the  chart-room  and  observed  him  in 
silent  admiration.  To  the  man  who  with  diffi- 
culty composed  a  letter  to  his  family,  the  fact  that 
Channing  was  writing  something  to  be  read  by 
millions  of  people,  and  more  rapidly  than  he 
could  have  spoken  the  same  words,  seemed  a 
superhuman  effort.  He  even  hesitated  to  inter- 
rupt it  by  an  offer  of  food. 

But  the  fever  would  not  let  Channing  taste  of 
the  food  when  they  placed  it  at  his  elbow,  and 
even  as  he  pushed  it  away,  his  mind  was  still  fixed 

203 


A  Derelict 

Upon  the  paragraph  before  him.  He  wrote. 
Sprawling  across  the  desk,  covering  page  upon 
page  with  giant  hieroglyphics,  lighting  cigarette 
after  cigarette  at  the  end  of  the  last  one,  but  with 
his  thoughts  far  away,  and,  as  he  performed  the 
act,  staring  uncomprehendingly  at  the  captain's 
colored  calendar  pinned  on  the  wall  before  him. 
For  many  months  later  the  Battle  of  Santiago 
was  associated  in  his  mind  with  a  calendar  for  the 
month  of  July,  illuminated  by  a  colored  picture 
of  six  white  kittens  in  a  basket. 

At  three  o'clock  Channing  ceased  writing  and 
stood  up,  shivering  and  shaking  with  a  violent 
chill.  He  cursed  himself  for  this  weakness,  and 
called  aloud  for  the  captain. 

"  I  can't  stop  now,"  he  cried.  He  seized  the 
rough  fist  of  the  captain  as  a  child  clings  to  the 
hand  of  his  nurse. 

"  Give  me  something,"  he  begged.  "  Medi- 
cine, quinine,  give  me  something  to  keep  my 
head  straight  until  it's  finished.  Go,  quick,"  he 
commanded.  His  teeth  were  chattering,  and  his 
body  jerked  with  sharp,  uncontrollable  shudders. 
The  captain  ran,  muttering,  to  his  medicine-chest. 

"  We've  got  one  drunken  man  on  board,"  he 
said  to  the  mate,  "  and  now  we've  got  a  crazy  one. 
You  mark  my  words,  he'll  go  off  his  head  at 
sunset." 

204 


A   Derelict 

But  at  sunset  Channing  called  to  him  and 
addressed  him  sanely.  He  held  in  his  hand  a 
mass  of  papers  carefully  numbered  and  arranged, 
and  he  gave  them  up  to  the  captain  as  though  it 
hurt  him  to  part  with  them. 

"  There's  the  story,"  he  said.  cc  You've  got  to 
do  the  rest.  I  can't — I — I'm  going  to  be  very 
ill."  He  was  swaying  as  he  spoke.  His  eyes 
burned  with  the  fever,  and  his  eyelids  closed  of 
themselves.  He  looked  as  though  he  had  been 
heavily  drugged. 

"  You  put  that  on  the  wire  at  Port  Antonio," 
he  commanded,  faintly ;  cc  pay  the  tolls  to  Kings- 
ton. From  there  they  are  to  send  it  by  way  of 
Panama,  you  understand,  by  the  Panama  wire." 

"  Panama  !  "  gasped  the  captain.  "  Good  Lord, 
that's  two  dollars  a  word."  He  shook  out  the 
pages  in  his  hand  until  he  found  the  last  one. 
c<  And  there's  sixty-eight  pages  here,"  he  expos- 
tulated. "  Why  the  tolls  will  be  five  thousand 
dollars  !  "  Channing  dropped  feebly  to  the  bench 
of  the  chart-room  and  fell  in  a  heap,  shivering 
and  trembling. 

<c  I  guess  it's  worth  it,"  he  murmured,  drowsily« 

The  captain  was  still  staring  at  the  last  page. 

"  But — but,  look  here,"  he  cried,  "  you've — 
you've  signed  Mr.  Keating's  name  to  it !  c  James 
R.  Keating/  YouVe  signed  his  name  to  it!" 

205 


A  Derelict 

Channing  raised  his  head  from  his  folded  arms 
and  stared  at  him  dully. 

"  You  don't  want  to  get  Keating  in  trouble,  do 
you  ?  "  he  asked  with  patience.  "  You  don't  want 
the  C.  P.  to  know  why  he  couldn't  write  the  best 
story  of  the  war  ?  Do  you  want  him  to  lose  his 
job  ?  Of  course  you  don't.  Well,  then,  let  it  go 
as  his  story.  I  won't  tell,  and  see  you  don't  tell, 
and  Keating  won't  remember." 

His  head  sank  back  again  upon  his  crossed 
arms.  "  It's  not  a  bad  story,"  he  murmured. 

But  the  captain  shook  his  head ;  his  loyalty  to 
his  employer  was  still  uppermost.  cc  It  doesn't 
seem  right !  "  he  protested.  "  It's  a  sort  of  a  lib- 
erty, isn't  it,  signing  another  man's  name  to  it, 
it's  a  sort  of  forgery." 

Channing  made  no  answer.  His  eyes  were 
shut  and  he  was  shivering  violently,  hugging  him- 
self in  his  arms. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later,  when  the  captain 
returned  with  fresh  quinine,  Channing  sat  upright 
and  saluted  him. 

"  Your  information,  sir,"  he  said,  addressing 
the  open  door  politely,  "  is  of  the  greatest  value. 
Tell  the  executive  officer  to  proceed  under  full 
steam  to  Panama.  He  will  first  fire  a  shot  across 
her  bows,  and  then  sink  her !  "  He  sprang  up- 
right and  stood  for  a  moment,  sustained  by  tne 

206 


«« We've  got  a  great  story  !     We  want  a  clear  wire." 


A  Derelict 

for  what  he  ate.  It  was  a  place  where  the  news- 
paper men  were  accustomed  to  meet,  men  who 
knew  him,  and  who,  until  he  found  work,  would 
lend  him  money  to  buy  a  bath,  clean  clothes,  and 
a  hall  bedroom. 

Norris,  the  World  man,  greeted  him  as  he 
entered  the  door  of  the  restaurant,  and  hailed  him 
with  a  cry  of  mingled  fright  and  pleasure. 

"  Why,  we  didn't  know  but  you  were  dead," 
he  exclaimed.  "The  boys  said  when  they  left 
Kingston  you  weren't  expected  to  live.  Did  you 
ever  get  the  money  and  things  we  sent  you  by  the 
Red  Cross  boat  ?  " 

Channing  glanced  at  himself  and  laughed. 

"  Do  I  look  it  ?  "  he  asked.  He  was  wearing 
the  same  clothes  in  which  he  had  slept  under  the 
fruit-sheds  at  Port  Antonio.  They  had  been 
soaked  and  stained  by  the  night-dews  and  by  the 
sweat  of  the  fever. 

"  Well,  it's  great  luck,  your  turning  up  here 
just  now,"  Norris  assured  him,  heartily.  "  That 
is,  if  you're  as  hungry  as  the  rest  of  the  boys  are 
who  have  had  the  fever.  You  struck  it  just  right ; 
we're  giving  a  big  dinner  here  to-night,"  he  ex- 
plained, "  one  of  Maria's  best.  You  come  in  with 
me.  It's  a  celebration  for  old  Keating,  a  farewell 
blow-out." 

Channing  started  and  laughed. 
209 


A  Derelict 

"Keating?"  he  asked.  "That's  funny,"  he 
said.  "  I  haven't  seen  him  since — since  before  I 
was  ill." 

"  Yes,  old  Jimmie  Keating.  You've  got  noth- 
ing against  him,  have  you  ?  " 

Channing  shook  his  head  vehemently,  and 
Norris  glanced  back  complacently  toward  the  door 
of  the  dining-room,  from  whence  came  the  sound 
of  intimate  revelry. 

"  You  might  have  had,  once,"  Norris  said, 
laughing;  "  we  were  all  up  against  him  once.  But 
since  he's  turned  out  such  a  wonder  and  a  war- 
hero,  we're  going  to  recognize  it.  They're  always 
saying  we  newspaper  men  have  it  in  for  each  other, 
and  so  we're  just  giving  him  this  subscription- 
dinner  to  show  it's  not  so.  He's  going  abroad, 
you  know.  He  sails  to-morrow  morning." 

"  No,  I  didn't  know,"  said  Channing. 

"  Of  course  not,  how  could  you  ?  Well,  the 
Consolidated  Press's  sending  him  and  his  wife  to 
Paris.  He's  to  cover  the  Peace  negotiations  there. 
It's  really  a  honeymoon-trip  at  the  expense  of  the 
C.  P.  It's  their  reward  for  his  work,  for  his  San- 
tiago story,  and  the  beat  and  all  that— 

Channing's  face  expressed  his  bewilderment. 

Norris  drew  back  dramatically. 

"  Don't  tell  me,"  he  exclaimed,  "  that  you 
haven't  heard  about  that !  " 

210 


A  Derelict 

Channing  laughed  a  short,  frightened  laugh,  and 
moved  nearer  to  the  street. 

"  No,"  he  said.     "  No,  I  hadn't." 

"  Yes,  but,  good  Lord  !  it  was  the  story  of  the 
war.  You  never  read  such  a  story  !  And  he  got 
it  through  by  Panama  a  day  ahead  of  all  the  other 
stories!  And  nobody  read  them,  anyway.  Why, 
Captain  Mahan  said  it  was  c  naval  history/  and 
the  Evening  Post  had  an  editorial  on  it,  and  said 
it  was  *  the  only  piece  of  literature  the  war  has 
produced/  We  never  thought  Keating  had  it  in 
him,  did  you  ?  The  Consolidated  Press  people 
felt  so  good  over  it  that  they've  promised,  when 
he  comes  back  from  Paris,  they'll  make  him  their 
Washington  correspondent.  He's  their  '  star ' 
reporter  now.  It  just  shows  you  that  the  occa- 
sion produces  the  man.  Come  on  in,  and  have 
a  drink  with  him." 

Channing  pulled  his  arm  away,  and  threw  a 
frightened  look  toward  the  open  door  of  the  din- 
ing-room. Through  the  layers  of  tobacco-smoke 
he  saw  Keating  seated  at  the  head  of  a  long, 
crowded  table,  smiling,  clear-eyed,  and  alert. 

"  Oh,  no,  I  couldn't,"  he  said,  with  sudden 
panic.  "  I  can't  drink  ;  doctor  won't  let  me.  I 
wasn't  coming  in,  I  was  just  passing  when  I  saw 
you.  Good-night,  I'm  much  obliged.  Good- 
night." 

211 


A  Derelict 

But  the  hospitable  Norris  would  not  be  denied. 

"  Oh,  come  in  and  say  c  good-by '  to  him,  any- 
how," he  insisted.  "  You  needn't  stay." 

"  No,  I  can't,"  Channing  protested.  "  I — 
they'd  make  me  drink  or  eat  and  the  doctor  says 
I  can't.  You  mustn't  tempt  me.  You  say  c  good- 
by  '  to  him  for  me,"  he  urged.  "And  Norris — • 
tell  him — tell  him — that  I  asked  you  to  say  to 
him,  c  It's  all  right/  that's  all,  just  that,  c  It's  all 
right.'  He'll  understand." 

There  was  the  sound  of  men's  feet  scraping  en 
the  floor,  and  of  chairs  being  moved  from  their 
places. 

Norris  started  away  eagerly.  "  I  guess  they're 
drinking  his  health,"  he  said.  "  I  must  go.  I'll 
tell  him  what  you  said,  c  It's  all  right.'  That's 
enough,  is  it  ?  There's  nothing  more  ?  " 

Channing  shook  his  head,  and  moved  away 
from  the  only  place  where  he  was  sure  to  find  food 
and  a  welcome  that  night. 

"  There's  nothing  more,"  he  said. 

As  he  stepped  from  the  door  and  stood  irreso- 
lutely in  the  twilight  of  the  street,  he  heard  the 
voices  of  the  men  who  had  gathered  in  Keating's 
honor  upraised  in  a  joyous  chorus. 

"  For  he's  a  jolly  good  fellow,"  they  sang,  "  for 
he's  a  jolly  good  fellow,  which  nobody  can  deny  !  " 


LA    LETTRE    D'AMOUR 


La  Lettre  d'Amour 

WHEN  Bardini,  who  led  the  Hungarian 
Band  at  the  Savoy  Restaurant,  was  pro- 
moted to  play  at  the  Casino  at  Trouville,  his 
place  was  taken  by  the  second  violin.  The  sec- 
ond violin  was  a  boy,  and  when  he  greeted  his 
brother  Tziganes  and  the  habitues  of  the  restau- 
rant with  an  apologetic  and  deprecatory  bow,  he 
showed  that  he  was  fully  conscious  of  the  inade- 
quacy of  his  years.  The  maitre  d'hdtel  glided 
from  table  to  table,  busying  himself  in  explana- 
tions. 

"  The  boy's  name  is  Edouard ;  he  comes  from 
Budapest,"  he  said.  "  The  season  is  too  late  to 
make  it  worth  the  while  of  the  management  to 
engage  a  new  chef  d'orchestre.  So  this  boy  will 
play.  He  plays  very  good,  but  he  is  not  like 
Bardini." 

He  was  not  in  the  least  like  Bardini.  In  ap- 
pearance, Bardini  suggested  a  Roumanian  gypsy  or 
a  Portuguese  sailor  ;  his  skin  was  deeply  tanned, 
his  hair  was  plastered  on  his  low  forehead  in  thick, 
oily  curls,  and  his  body,  through  much  rich  living 

215 


La  Lettre  d'Amour 

on  the  scraps  that  fell  from  the  tables  of  Girot's 
and  the  Casino  des  Fleurs,  was  stout  and  gross. 
He  was  the  typical  leader  of  an  orchestra  con- 
demned to  entertain  a  noisy  restaurant.  His 
school  of  music  was  the  school  of  Maxim's.  To 
his  skill  with  the  violin  he  had  added  the  arts  of 
the  head  waiter,  and  he  and  the  cook  ran  a  race 
for  popularity,  he  pampering  to  one  taste,  and 
the  cook,  with  his  sauces,  pampering  to  another. 
When  so  commanded,  his  pride  as  an  artist  did 
not  prevent  him  from  breaking  off  in  the  middle 
of  Schubert's  Serenade  to  play  Daisy  Bell,  nor  was 
he  above  breaking  it  off  on  his  own  accord  to  sa- 
lute the  American  patron,  as  he  entered  with  the 
Belle  of  New  York,  or  any  one  of  the  Gaiety 
Girls,  hurrying  in  late  for  supper,  with  the  Soldiers 
in  the  Park.  When  he  walked  slowly  through 
the  restaurant,  pausing  at  each  table,  his  eyes, 
even  while  they  ogled  the  women  to  whom  he 
played,  followed  the  brother  Tzigane — who  was 
passing  the  plate — and  noted  which  of  the  patrons 
gave  silver  and  which  gave  gold. 

Edouard,  the  second  violin,  was  all  that  Bar- 
dini  was  not,  consequently  he  was  entirely  unsuited 
to  lead  an  orchestra  in  a  restaurant.  Indeed,  so  lit- 
tle did  he  understand  of  what  was  required  of  him 
that  on  the  only  occasion  when  Bardini  sent  him 
to  pass  the  plate  he  was  so  unsophisticated  as  not 

216 


La  Lettre  cT Amour 

to  hide  the  sixpences  and  shillings  under  the  nap- 
kin, and  so  Jeave  only  the  half-crowns  and  gold 
pieces  exposed.  And,  instead  of  smiling  mock- 
ingly at  those  who  gave  the  sixpences,  and  wait- 
ing for  them  to  give  more,  he  even  looked  grate- 
ful, and  at  the  same  time  deeply  ashamed.  He 
differed  from  Bardini  also  in  that  he  was  very 
thin  and  tall,  with  the  serious,  smooth-shaven  face 
of  a  priest.  fLxcept  for  his  fantastic  costume, 
there  was  nothing  about  him  to  recall  the  poses 
of  the  musician :  his  hair  was  neither  long  nor 
curly ;  it  lay  straight  across  his  forehead  and  flat 
on  either  side,  and  when  he  played,  his  eyes 
neither  sought  out  the  admiring  auditor  nor  in- 
vited his  applause.  On  the  contrary,  they  looked 
steadfastly  ahead.  It  was  as  though  they  be- 
longed to  someone  apart,  who  was  listening  in- 
tently to  the  music.  But  in  the  waits  between 
the  numbers  the  boy's  eyes  turned  from  table  to 
table,  observing  the  people  in  his  audience.  He 
knew  nearly  all  of  them  by  sight :  the  head  wait- 
ers who  brought  him  their  "  commands,"  and  his 
brother-musicians,  had  often  discussed  them  in 
his  hearing.  They  represented  every  city  of  the 
world,  every  part  of  the  social  edifice :  there  were 
those  who  came  to  look  at  the  spectacle,  and 
those  who  came  to  be  looked  at ;  those  who  gave 
a  dinner  for  the  sake  of  the  diners,  those  who 

217 


La  Lettre  d'Amour 

dined  for  the  dinner  alone.  To  some  the  restau- 
rant was  a  club ;  others  ventured  in  counting  the 
cost,  taking  it  seriously,  even  considering  that  ;t 
conferred  upon  them  some  social  distinction. 
There  were  pretty  women  in  paint  and  spangles, 
with  conscious,  half-grown  boys  just  up  from 
Oxford  ;  company-promoters  dining  and  wining 
possible  subscribers  or  cc  guinea-pigs  "  into  an  ac- 
quiescent state ;  Guardsmen  giving  a  dinner  of 
farewell  to  brother-officers  departing  for  the  Sou- 
dan or  the  Cape ;  wide-eyed  Americans  just  off 
the  steamer  in  high  dresses,  great  ladies  in  low 
dresses  and  lofty  tiaras,  and  ladies  of  the  stage, 
utterly  unconscious  of  the  boon  they  were  con- 
ferring on  the  people  about  them,  who,  an  hour 
before,  had  paid  ten  shillings  to  look  at  them 
from  the  stalls. 

Edouard,  as  he  sat  with  his  violin  on  his  knee, 
his  fingers  fretting  the  silent  strings,  observed 
them  all  without  envy  and  without  interest.  Had 
he  been  able  to  choose,  it  would  not  have  been 
to  such  a  well-dressed  mob  as  this  that  he  would 
have  given  his  music.  For  at  times  a  burst  of 
laughter  killed  a  phrase  that  was  sacred  to  him, 
and  sometimes  the  murmur  of  the  voices  and  the 
clatter  of  the  waiters  would  drown  him  out  alto- 
gether. But  the  artist  in  him  forced  him  to  play 
all  things  well,  and  for  his  own  comfort  he  would 

218 


La  Lettre  d'Amour 

assure  himself  that  no  doubt  somewhere  in  the 
room  someone  was  listening,  someone  who 
thought  more  of  the  strange,  elusive  melodies  of 
the  Hungarian  folksongs  than  of  the  chef's  en- 
tries, and  that  for  this  unknown  one  he  must  be 
true  to  himself  and  true  to  his  work.  Covertly, 
he  would  seek  out  some  face  to  which  he  could 
make  the  violin  speak — not  openly  and  imper- 
tinently, as  did  Bardini,  but  secretly  and  for  sym- 
pathy, so  that  only  one  could  understand.  It 
pleased  young  Edouard  to  see  such  a  one  raise 
her  head  as  though  she  had  heard  her  name 
spoken,  and  hold  it  poised  to  listen,  and  turn 
slowly  in  her  chair,  so  completely  engaged  that 
she  forgot  the  man  at  her  elbow,  and  the  food 
before  her  was  taken  away  untouched.  It  de- 
lighted him  to  think  that  she  knew  that  the  music 
was  speaking  to  her  alone.  But  he  would  not 
have  had  her  think  that  the  musician  spoke,  too 
— it  was  the  soul  of  the  music,  not  his  soul,  that 
was  reaching  out  to  the  pretty  stranger.  When 
his  soul  spoke  through  the  music  it  would  not 
be,  so  he  assured  himself,  to  such  chatterers  as 
gathered  on  the  terrace  of  the  Savoy  Restaurant. 
Mrs.  Warriner  and  her  daughter  were  on  their 
way  home,  or  to  one  of  their  homes ;  this  one 
#as  up  the  Hills  of  Lenox.  They  had  been  in 
Egypt  and  up  the  Nile,  and  for  the  last  two 

219 


La  Lettre  d'Amour 

months  had  been  slowly  working  their  way  north 
through  Greece  and  Italy.  They  were  in  Lon- 
don, at  the  Savoy,  waiting  for  their  sailing-day, 
and  on  the  night  of  their  arrival  young  Corbin 
was  giving  them  a  dinner.  For  three  months 
Mrs.  Warriner  and  himself  had  alternated  in  giv- 
ing each  other  dinners  in  every  part  of  Southern 
Europe,  and  the  gloom  which  hung  over  this  one 
was  not  due  to  the  fact  that  the  diners  had  be- 
come wearied  of  one  another's  society,  but  that 
the  opportunities  still  left  to  them  for  this  ex- 
change of  hospitality  were  almost  at  an  end. 
That  night,  for  the  hundredth  time,  young  Cor- 
bin had  decided  it  would  have  been  much  better 
for  him  if  they  had  come  to  an  end  many  weeks 
previous,  for  the  part  he  played  in  the  trio  was  a 
difficult  one.  It  was  that  of  the  lover  who  will 
not  take  "  no  "  for  an  answer.  The  lover  who 
will  take  no,  and  goes  on  his  way  disconsolate, 
may  live  to  love  another  day,  and  everyone  is 
content ;  but  the  one  who  will  not  have  no,  who 
will  not  hear  of  it,  nor  consider  it,  has  much  to 
answer  for  in  making  life  a  burden  to  himself  and 
all  around  him. 

When  Corbin  joined  the  Warriners  on  their 
trip  up  the  Nile  it  was  considered  by  all  of  them, 
in  their  ignorance,  a  happy  accident.  Other 
mothers,  more  worldly  than  Mrs.  Warriner,  with 


220 


La  Lettre  d' Amour 

daughters  less  attractive,  gave  her  undeserved 
credit  for  having  lured  into  her  party  one  of  the 
young  men  of  Boston  who  was  most  to  be  de- 
sired as  a  son-in-law.  But  the  mind  of  Mrs* 
Warriner,  so  far  as  Mr.  Corbin  was  concerned, 
was  quite  free  from  any  such  consideration;  so 
was  the  mind  of  the  young  bachelor ;  certainly 
Miss  Warriner  held  no  tender  thoughts  concern- 
ing him.  The  families  of  the  Warriners  and  the 
Corbins  had  been  friends  ever  since  the  cowpath 
crossed  the  Common.  Before  Corbin  entered  Har- 
vard Miss  Warriner  and  he  had  belonged  to  the 
same  dancing-class.  Later  she  had  danced  with 
him  at  four  class-days,  and  many  times  between. 
When  he  graduated,  she  had  gone  abroad  with 
her  mother,  and  he  had  joined  the  Somerset  Club, 
and  played  polo  at  Pride's  Crossing,  and  talked 
vaguely  of  becoming  a  lawyer,  and  of  re-entering 
Harvard  by  the  door  of  the  Law  School,  chiefly, 
it  was  supposed,  that  he  might  have  another  year 
of  the  football  team.  He  was  very  young  in 
spirit,  very  big  and  athletic,  very  rich,  and  with- 
out a  care  or  serious  thought.  Miss  Warriner 
was  to  him,  then,  no  more  than  a  friend ;  to  her 
he  was  a  boy,  one  of  many  nice,  cultivated  Har- 
vard boys,  who  occasionally  called  upon  her  and 
talked  football.  On  the  face  of  things,  she  was 
not  the  sort  of  girl  he  should  have  loved.  But 

221 


La  Lettre  d' Amour 

for  some  saving  clause  in  him,  he  should  have 
loved  and  married  one  of  the  many  other  girls 
who  had  belonged  to  the  same  dancing-class,  who 
would  have  been  known  as  "  Mrs.  Tom  "  Corbin, 
who  would  have  been  sought  after  as  a  chaperone, 
and  who  would  have  stood  up  in  her  cart  when 
he  played  polo  and  shouted  at  him  across  the 
field  to  "  ride  him  off." 

Miss  Warriner,  on  the  contrary,  was  much 
older  than  he  in  everything  but  years,  and  was 
conscious  of  the  fact.  She  was  a  serious,  self- 
centred  young  person,  and  satisfied  with  her  own 
thoughts,  unless  her  companion  gave  her  better 
ones.  She  concerned  herself  with  the  character 
and  ideas  of  her  friends.  If  a  young  man  lacked 
ideas,  the  fact  that  he  possessed  wealth  and  good 
manners  could  not  save  him.  If  these  attributes 
had  been  pointed  out  to  her  as  part  of  his  assets 
she  would  have  been  surprised.  She  was  not 
impressed  with  her  own  good  looks  and  fortune 
— she  took  them  for  granted  ;  so  why  should  they 
count  with  her  in  other  people  ? 

Miss  Warriner  made  an  error  of  analysis  in 
regard  to  Mr.  Corbin  in  judging  his  brain  by  his 
topics  of  conversation.  His  conversation  was 
limited  to  the  A  B  C's  of  life,  with  which,  up  to 
the  time  of  his  meeting  her,  his  brain  had  been 
fed.  When,  however,  she  began  to  cram  it  full 

222 


La  Lettre  d' Am  our 

with  all  the  other  letters  of  the  alphabet,  it  showed 
Itself  just  as  capable  of  digesting  the  economic 
conditions  of  Egypt  as  it  had  previously  suc- 
ceeded in  mastering  the  chess-like  problems  of 
the  game  of  football. 

Young  Corbin  had  not  considered  the  Home 
Beautiful,  nor  Municipal  Government,  nor  How 
the  Other  Half  Lives  as  topics  that  were  worth 
his  while ;  but  when  Miss  Warriner  showed  her 
interest  in  them,  her  doing  so  made  them  worth 
his  while,  and  he  fell  upon  them  greedily.  He 
even  went  much  further  than  she  had  gone,  and 
was  not  content  merely  to  theorize  and  to  discuss 
social  questions  from  the  safe  distance  of  the  deck 
of  a  dahabiyeh  on  the  Nile,  but  proposed  to  at 
once  put  her  theories  into  practice.  To  this  end 
he  offered  her  a  house  in  the  slums  of  Boston, 
rent  free,  where  she  could  start  her  College  Settle- 
ment. He  made  out  lists  of  the  men  he  thought 
would  like  to  teach  there,  and  he  volunteered  to 
pay  the  expenses  of  the  experiment  until  it  failed 
or  succeeded.  When  her  interest  changed  to  the 
Tombs  of  the  Rameses,  and  the  succession  of  the 
ancient  dynasties,  he  spent  hours  studying  his 
Baedeker  that  he  might  keep  in  step  with  her ;  and 
when  she  abandoned  ancient  for  modern  Egypt 
and  became  deeply  charmed  with  the  intricacies 
of  the  dual  control  and  of  the  Mixed  Courts,  he 

2*3 


La  Lettre  d' Amour 

interviewed  subalterns.  Pashas,  and  missionaries  in 
a  gallant  effort  to  comprehend  the  social  and  po- 
litical difficulties  of  the  white  men  who  had  occu- 
pied the  land  of  the  Sphinx,  who  had  funded  her 
debt,  irrigated  her  deserts,  and  "  made  a  mummy 

fight.- 

One  night,  as  the  dahabiyeh  lay  moored  be- 
neath a  group  of  palms  in  the  moonlight,  Miss 
Warriner  gave  him  praise  for  offering  her  the 
house  in  the  slums  for  her  experiment.  He  as- 
sured her  that  he  was  entirely  selfish — that  he 
did  so  because  he  believed  her  settlement  would 
be  a  benefit  to  the  neighborhood,  in  which  he 
owned  some  property.  When  she  then  accused 
him  of  giving  sordid  reasons  for  what  was  his 
genuine  philanthropy  he  told  her  flatly  that  he 
neither  cared  for  the  higher  education  of  the 
slums  nor  the  increased  value  of  his  rents,  but 
for  her,  and  to  please  her,  and  that  he  loved  her 
and  would  love  her  always.  In  answer  to  this, 
Miss  Warriner  told  him  gently  but  firmly  that 
she  could  not  love  him,  but  that  she  liked  him 
and  admired  him,  even  though  she  was  disap- 
pointed to  find  that  his  sudden  interest  in  matters 
more  serious  than  polo  had  been  assumed  to 
please  her.  She  added  that  she  would  always  be 
his  friend.  This,  she  thought,  ended  the  matter : 
it  was  unfortunate  that  they  should  be  shipbound 

224 


La  Lettre  d'Amour 

on  the  Nile  ;  but  she  trusted  to  his  tact  and  good 
sense  to  save  them  both  from  embarrassment 
She  was  not  prepared,  however,  to  see  him  come 
on  deck  very  late  the  next  morning,  after,  appar- 
ently, a  long  sleep,  as  keen,  as  cheerful,  and  as 
smiling  as  he  had  been  before  the  blow  had  fallen. 
It  piqued  her  a  little,  and  partly  because  of  thats 
and  partly  because  she  really  was  relieved  to  find 
him  in  such  a  humor,  she  congratulated  him  on 
inis  most  evident  happiness* 

"  Why  not  ? "  he  asked^  suddenly  growing 
sober.  "  I  love  you,  That  is  enough  to  make 
any  man  happy,  isn't  it?  You  needn't  love  me* 
but  you  can't  prevent  my  going  on  loving  you  " 

a  Well,  I  am  very  sorry/1  she  sighed  in  much 
perplexity, 

a  You  needn't  be,"  he  answered,  reassuringiyc 
**  I'm  more  sorry  for  you  than  I  am  for  myselfo 
You  are  going  to  have  a  terrible  time  until  you 
marry  me." 

They  were  at  Thebes,  and  he  went  off  that 
afternoon  to  the  Temple  of  Luxor  with  her 
mother,  and  made  violent  use  of  the  sacred  altars,, 
the  beauty  of  Cleopatra,  the  eternity  of  the  scara- 
bea,  and  the  indestructibility  of  the  Pyramids  to 
suggest  faintly  to  Mrs,  Warriner  how  much  he 
loved  her  daughter.  He  shook  his  hand  at  the 
touching  sphinxes  and  said .-; 

225 


La  Lettre  d  Amour 

x<  Mrs,  Warriner,  in  forty  centuries  they  have 
Giever  looked  down  upon  a  man  as  proud  as  I  am, 
and  I  am  told  they  have  seen  Napoleon;  but  I 
meed  help ;  she  won't  help  me,  so  you  must.  It's 
no  use  arguing  against  me.  When  this  Nile  dries 
sip  I  shall  have  ceased  loving  your  daughter ! w 

"  Did  you  tell  Helen  what  you  have  told  me  ? 
Did  you  talk  to  her  so  ?  "  asked  Mrs,  Warriner,, 

w  No,  not  last  night,"  said  Corbin ;  "  but  I 
will,  in  time,  after  she  gets  more  used  to  the 
idea." 

Unfortunately  for  the  peace  of  Mr.  Corbin  and 
all  concerned,  Miss  Warriner  did  not  become 
reconciled  to  the  idea.  On  the  contrary,  she  re- 
sented it  greatly.  She  had  looked  at  the  possi- 
bility of  something  to  be  carried  out  later — much 
later,  perhaps  not  at  all.  It  did  not  seem  possible 
that  before  she  had  really  begun  to  enjoy  life  it 
should  be  subjected  to  such  a  change.  She  saw 
that  it  was  obviously  the  thing  that  should  happen. 
If  the  match  had  been  arranged  by  the  entire  city 
of  Boston  it  could  not  have  been  more  obvious. 
But  she  argued  with  him  that  marriage  was  a 
mutual  self-sacrifice,  and  that  until  she  felt  ready 
to  make  her  share  of  the  sacrifice  it  was  impossi 
ble  for  her  to  consent. 

He  combated  her  arguments,  which  he  refused 
to  consider  as  arguments,  and  demolished  them 

226 


La  Lettre  d  Arnour 

•ijne  by  one.  But  the  objection  which  he  de- 
stroyed before  he  went  to  sleep  at  night  was  re- 
placed the  next  day  by  anothe^  and  his  cause 
never  advanced.  Each  day  he  found  the  citadel 
he  was  besieging  girt  in  by  new  and  intricate  de- 
fences. The  reason  was  simple  enough  :  the  girl 
was  not  in  Jove  with  him.  Her  objections,  her 
arguments,  her  reasons  were  as  absurd  as  he 
proved  them  to  be.  But  they  were  insurmount- 
able because  they  were  really  various  disguises  of 
the  fact  that  she  did  not  care  for  him.  They  were 
disguises  to  herself  as  well  as  to  him.  He  was 
so  altogether  a  good  fellow,  so  earnest,  honest, 
and  desperate  a  lover  that  the  primary  fact,  that 
she  did  not  want  his  love  did  not  present  itself^ 
and  she  kept  casting  about  in  her  mind  for  ex- 
cuses and  reasons  to  explain  her  lack  of  feeling, 
He  wooed  her  in  every  obvious  way  that  would 
present  itself  to  a  boy  of  deep  feeling,  of  quick 
mind,  and  an  unlimited  letter  of  credit.  He  cre- 
ated wants  in  order  to  gratify  them  later.  He 
suggested  her  need  of  things  which  he  had  already 
ordered,  which,  before  she  had  been  enticed  into 
expressing  a  wish  for  them,  were  then  speeding 
across  the  Continent  toward  hen  Every  hour 
brought  her  some  fresh  and  ingenuous  sign  of  his 
thought  and  of  his  devotion.  He  treated  these 
tributes  as  a  matter  of  course ;  if  she  failed  to 

227 


La  Lettre  d*  Amour 

observe  them  and  to  see  his  handiwork  in  them 
he  let  them  fall  to  the  ground  unnoticed. 

His  love  itself  was  his  argument-in-chief ;  it 
was  its  own  excuse ;  it  needed  no  allies ;  "  I  love 
you  **  was  his  first  and  last  word.  It  puzzled  her 
to  find  that  she  could  not  care.  When  she  was 
alone  she  asked  herself  what  there  was  in  him  of 
which  she  disapproved,  and  she  could  only  an- 
swer that  there  was  nothing.  She  asked  herself 
what  other  men  there  were  who  pleased  her  more, 
and  she  could  think  of  none.  On  the  contrary, 
she  found  him  entirely  charming  as  a  friend — but 
his  love  distressed  her  greatly.  It  was  a  foreign 
language ;  she  could  not  comprehend  it.  When 
he  allowed  it  to  appear  it  completely  disguised 
him  in  her  eyes ;  it  annoyed  her  so  much  that 
at  times  she  considered  herself  a  much  ill-used 
young  person,. 

It  was  in  this  way  that  the  matter  stood  be- 
tween them  when  their  long  journey  was  ended 
and  they  reached  London.  He  was  miserable, 
desperate,  and  hopeless ;  the  girl  was  firm  in  that 
she  would  not  marry  him,  and  her  mother,  who 
respected  both  the  depth  of  Corbin's  feelings  and 
her  daughter's  reticence,  and  who  had  watched 
the  struggle  with  a  troubled  heart,  was  only 
thankful  that  they  were  to  part,  and  that  it  was  at 
an  end*  Corbin  had  no  idea  where  he  would  go 

228 


La  Lettre  d' Amour 

nor  what  he  would  do.  He  recognized  that  to 
cross  the  ocean  with  them  would  only  subject  his 
love  to  fresh  distress  and  humiliation,  and  he  had 
determined  to  put  as  much  space  between  him 
and  Miss  Warriner  as  the  surface  of  the  globe 
permitted.  The  Philippines  seemed  to  offer  a 
picturesque  retreat  for  a  broken  life.  He  decided 
he  would  go  there  and  enlist  and  have  himself 
shot.  He  was  uncertain  whether  he  would  fol- 
low in  the  steps  of  his  Revolutionary  ancestors 
and  join  the  men  who  were  struggling  for  their 
liberty  and  independence,  or  his  fellow-Ameri- 
cans; but  that  he  would  get  shot  by  one  side  or 
the  other  he  was  determined.  And  then  in  days 
to  come  she  would  think,  perhaps,  of  the  young 
man  on  the  other  side  of  the  globe,  buried  in  the 
wet  rice-fields,  with  the  palms  fanning  him  through 
his  eternal  sleep,  and  she  might  be  sorry  then  that 
she  had  not  listened  to  his  troubled  heart.  The 
picture  gave  him  some  small  comfort,  and  that 
night  when  he  ordered  dinner  for  them  at  the 
Savoy  his  manner  showed  the  inspired  resolve  of 
one  who  is  soon  to  mount  the  scaffold  unafraid, 
and  with  a  rose  between  his  lips. 

Edouard,  the  first  violin,  saw  Miss  Warriner 
when  she  entered  and  took  her  place  facing  him 
at  one  of  the  tables  in  the  centre  of  the  room. 
He  was  sitting  with  his  violin  on  his  knees, 

229 


La  Lettre  cTAmour 

touching  the  strings  with  his  finger-tips.  When 
he  saw  her  he  choked  the  neck  of  the  violin  with 
his  hand,  as  though  it  had  been  the  hand  of  a 
friend  which  he  had  grasped  in  a  sudden  ecstasy 
of  delight.  The  effect  her  appearance  had  made 
upon  him  was  so  remarkable  that  he  glanced 
quickly  over  his  shoulder  to  see  if  he  had  be- 
trayed himself  by  some  sign  or  gesture.  But  the 
other  musicians  were  concerned  with  their  own 
gossip,  and  he  felt  free  to  turn  again  and  from 
under  his  half-closed  eyelids  to  observe  her  cov- 
ertly. 

There  was  nothing  to  explain  why  Miss  War- 
riner,  in  particular,  should  have  so  disturbed  him  $ 
the  English  women  seated  about  her  were  as  fair  j 
she  showed  no  great  sorrow  in  her  face  ;  her  beauty 
was  not  of  the  type  which  carried  observers  by 
assault.  And  yet  not  one  of  the  many  beautiful 
women  who  on  one  night  or  another  passed  be- 
fore Edouard  in  the  soft  light  of  the  red  shades 
had  ever  stirred  him  so  strangely,  had  ever  de- 
pressed him  with  such  a  tender  melancholy,  and 
filled  his  soul — the  soul  of  a  Hungarian  and  a 
musician — with  such  loneliness  and  unrest.  He 
knew  that,  so  far  as  he  was  concerned,  she  was  as 
distant  as  the  Venus  in  the  Louvre ;  she  was,  for 
him,  a  beautiful,  unapproachable  statue,  placed, 
by  some  social  convention,  upon  a  pedestaL 

230 


La  Lettre  cTAmoui 

As  he  looked  at  her  he  felt  hotly  the  degrada- 
tion of  his  silly  uniform,  of  the  striped  sash 
around  his  waist,  the  tawdry  braids,  and  the  tas- 
selled  boots.  He  felt  as  he  had  often  felt  before, 
but  now  more  keenly  than  ever,  the  prostitution 
of  his  art  in  this  temple  of  the  senses,  this  home 
of  epicures,  where  people  met  to  feast  their  eyes 
and  charm  their  palates.  He  could  not  put  his 
feelings  into  words,  and  he  knew  that  if  by  some 
upheaval  of  the  social  world  he  should  be  thrown 
into  her  presence  he  would  still  be  bound,  he 
would  not  be  able  to  speak  or  write  what  she 
inspired  in  him.  But — and  at  the  thought  he 
breathed  quickly,  and  raised  his  shoulders  with  a 
touch  of  pride — he  could  tell  her  in  his  own  way  _ 
after  his  own  fashion  he  could  express  what  he 
felt  better  even  than  those  other  men  could  tell 
what  they  feel — these  men  for  whose  amusement 
he  performed  nightly,  to  whom  it  was  granted  to 
sit  at  her  side,  who  spoke  the  language  of  her 
class  and  of  her  own  people.  Edouard  was  not 
given  to  analyzing  his  emotions ;  like  the  music 
of  his  Tzigane  ancestors,  they  came  to  him  sweep- 
ing every  chord  in  his  nature,  beating  rapidly  to 
the  time  of  the  Schardash,  or  with  the  fitfulness 
of  the  gypsy  folksongs  sinking  his  spirits  into 
melancholy.  So  he  did  not  stop  to  question  why 
£his  one  face  so  suddenly  inspired  him ;  he  only 

231 


La  Lettre  cTAmour 

knew  that  he  felt  grateful,  that  he  was  impatient 
to  pay  his  tribute  of  admiration,  that  he  was  glad 
he  was  an  artist  who  could  give  his  feelings  voice. 

In  the  long  programme  of  selected  airs  he  re- 
membered that  there  was  one  which  would  give 
him  this  chance  to  speak,  in  the  playing  of  which 
he  could  put  all  his  skill  and  all  his  soul,  an  air 
which  carried  with  it  infinite  sadness  and  the 
touch  of  a  caress.  The  other  numbers  on  the 
programme  had  been  chosen  to  please  the  patrons 
of  a  restaurant,  this  one,  La  Lettre  d*  Amour,  was 
included  in  the  list  for  his  own  satisfaction.  He 
had  put  it  there  to  please  himself;  to-night  he 
would  play  it  to  please  her — to  this  unknown  girl 
who  had  so  suddenly  awakened  and  inspired  him. 

As  he  waited  for  this  chance  to  come  he  watched 
her,  noting  her  every  movement,  her  troubled 
smile,  her  air  of  being  apart  and  above  her  sur- 
roundings. He  noticed,  too,  the  set  face  of  the 
young  man  at  her  side  and,  with  the  discernment 
of  one  whose  own  interest  is  captive,  saw  the  half- 
concealed  longing  in  his  eyes.  He  felt  a  quick 
antipathy  to  this  young  man.  His  assured  posi- 
tion at  the  girl's  side  accentuated  how  far  he  him- 
self was  removed  from  her ;  he  resented  also  the 
manner  of  the  young  man  to  the  waiters,  and  he 
wondered  hotly  if,  in  the  mind  of  this  favored 
youth,  the  musician  who  played  for  his  entertain* 

232 


La  Lettre  (FAmour 

ment  was  regarded  any  more  highly  than  the  ser- 
vant who  received  his  orders.  To  this  feeling  of 
resentment  was  added  one  of  contempt.  For,  as 
he  read  the  tableau  at  the  table  below  him,  the 
young  man  was  the  devotee  of  the  young  girl  at 
his  side,  and  if  one  could  judge  from  her  averted 
eyes,  from  her  silent  assent  to  his  questions,  from 
the  fact  that  she  withdrew  from  the  talk  between 
him  and  the  older  woman,  his  devotion  was  not 
welcome. 

This  reading  of  the  pantomime  pleased  Edouard 
greatly.  Nothing  could  have  so  crowned  the 
feeling  which  the  beauty  of  the  stranger  stirred  in 
him  as  the  thought  that  another  loved  her  as  well 
as  himself,  and  that  the  other,  who  started  with 
all  things  in  his  favor,  met  with  none  from  her. 

Edouard  assured  himself  that  this  was  so  be- 
cause he  had  often  heard  his  people  boast  that 
men  not  of  their  country  could  not  feel  as  they 
could  feel.  If  he  had  ever  considered  them  at  all 
it  was  as  cold  and  conscious  creatures  who  taught 
themselves  to  cover  up  what  they  felt,  so  that 
when  their  emotions  strove  to  assert  themselves 
they  were  found,  through  long  disuse,  to  be  dumb 
and  inarticulate.  Edouard  rejoiced  that  to  the 
men  of  his  race  it  was  given  to  feel  and  suffer 
much.  He  was  sure  that  beneath  the  calmness 

233 


La  Lettre  d'Amour 

of  her  beauty  this  woman  before  him  could  feel 
deeply ;  he  read  in  her  eyes  the  sympathy  of  a 
great  soul ;  she  made  him  think  of  a  Madonna 
m  the  church  of  St.  Sophia  at  Budapest.  He  saw 
in  her  a  woman  who  could  love  greatly.  When 
he  considered  how  impossible  it  was  for  the  young 
man  at  her  side  ever  to  experience  the  great  emo- 
tions which  alone  could  reach  her,  his  contempt 
for  him  rose  almost  to  pity.  His  violin,  with  his 
power  to  feel,  and  with  his  knowledge  of  tech« 
nic  added,  could  send  his  message  as  far  as 
sound  could  carry.  He  could  afford  to  be  gen- 
erous, and  when  he  rose  to  play  La  Lettre 
d*  Amour  it  was  with  the  elation  of  a  knight  en- 
tering the  lists,  with  the  ardor  of  a  lover  singing 
beneath  his  lady's  window.  La  Lettre  d'Amour 
is  a  composition  written  to  a  slow  measure,  and 
filled  with  chords  of  exquisite  pathos.  It  comes 
hesitatingly,  like  the  confession  of  a  lover  who 
loves  so  deeply  that  he  halts  to  find  words  with 
which  to  express  his  feelings.  It  moves  in  broken 
phrases,  each  note  rising  in  intensity  and  growing 
in  beauty.  It  is  not  a  burst  of  passionate  appeal, 
but  a  plea,  tender,  beseeching,  and  throbbing 
with  melancholy.  As  he  played,  Edouard  stepped 
down  from  the  dais  on  which  the  musicians  sat, 
and  advanced  slowly  between  the  tables.  It  was 
late,  and  the  majority  of  those  who  had  been  din* 

234 


La  Lettre  d*  Amour 

ing  had  departed  to  the  theatres.  Those  who 
remained  were  lingering  over  their  coffee,  and 
were  smoking ;  their  voices  were  lowered  to  a 
polite  monotone ;  the  rush  of  the  waiters  had 
ceased,  and  the  previous  chatter  had  sunk  to  a 
subdued  murmur.  Into  this,  the  quivering  sigh 
of  Edouard's  violin  penetrated  like  a  sunbeam 
feeling  its  way  into  a  darkened  room,  and,  at  the 
sound,  the  voices,  one  by  one,  detached  themselves 
from  the  general  chorus,  until,  lacking  support,  it 
ceased  altogether.  Some  were  silent,  that  they 
might  hear  the  better  v  others,  who  preferred  their 
own  talk,  were  silent  out  of  regard  for  those  who 
desired  to  listen,  and  a  waiter  who  was  so  indis- 
creet as  to  clatter  a  tray  of  glasses  was  hushed  on 
the  instant.  The  tribute  of  attention  lent  to 
Edouard  an  added  power ;  his  head  lifted  on  his 
shoulders  with  pride;  his  bow  cut  deeper  and 
firmer,  and  with  more  delicate  shading ;  the  notes 
rose  in  thrilling,  plaintive  sadness,  and  flooded 
the  hot  air  with  melody. 

Edouard  made  his  way  to  within  a  short  dis- 
tance of  the  table  at  which  Miss  Warriner  was 
seated,  and  halted  there  as  though  he  had  found 
his  audience.  He  did  not  look  at  her,  although 
she  sat  directly  facing  him,  but  it  was  evident  to 
all  that  she  was  the  one  to  whom  his  effort  was 
directed,  and  Corbin,  who  was  seated  with  his 

235 


La  Lettre  d' Amour 

back  to  Edouard,  recognized  this  and  turned  in 
his  chair. 

The  body  of  the  young  musician  was  trembling 
with  the  feeling  which  found  its  outlet  through 
the  violin.  He  was  in  ecstasy  over  his  power 
and  its  accomplishment.  The  strings  of  the  vio- 
lin pulsated  to  the  beating  of  his  heart,  and  he 
felt  that  surely  by  now  the  emotion  which  shook 
him  must  have  reached  the  girl  who  had  given  it 
life — and,  for  one  swift  second,  his  eyes  sought 
hers.  What  he  saw  was  the  same  beautiful  face 
which  had  inspired  him,  but  unmoved,  cold,  and 
unresponsive.  As  his  eyes  followed  hers  she 
raised  her  head  and  looked,  listlessly,  around  the 
room,  and  then  turned  and  glanced  up  at  him 
with  a  careless  and  critical  scrutiny.  If  his  music 
had  been  the  music  of  an  organ  in  the  street,  and 
he  the  man  who  raised  his  hat  for  coppers,  she 
could  not  have  been  less  moved.  The  discovery 
struck  Edouard  like  a  cold  blast  from  an  open 
door.  His  fingers  faltered  on  the  neck  of  his 
violin,  his  bow  wavered,  drunkenly,  across  the 
strings,  and  he  turned  away  his  eyes  to  shut  out 
the  vision  of  his  failure,  seeking  relief  and  sym- 
pathy. And,  In  their  swift  passage,  they  encoun- 
tered those  of  Corbin  looking  up  at  him,  his  eyes 
aglow  with  wonder,  feeling,  and  sorrow.  They 
seemed  to  hold  him  to  accounts  they  begged, 

236 


La  Lettre  d'Amour 

they  demanded  of  him  not  to  break  the  spell, 
and,  in  response,  the  hot  blood  in  the  veins  of  the 
musician  surged  back,  his  pride  flared  up  again, 
his  eyes  turned  on  Corbin's  like  those  of  a  dog 
to  his  master's.  Under  their  spell  the  music 
soared,  trembling,  paused  and  soared  again,  thrill- 
ing those  who  heard  it  with  its  grief  and  tender- 
ness. 

Edouard's  heart  leaped  with  triumph.  ec  The 
man  knows,"  he  whispered  to  the  violin ;  "  he 
understands  us.  He  knows." 

The  people,  leaning  with  their  elbows  on  the 
tables  before  them,  the  waiters  listening  with  tol- 
erant smiles,  the  musicians  following  Edouard 
with  anxious  pride,  saw  only  a  young  man  with 
his  arm  thrown  heavily  across  the  back  of  his 
chair,  who  was  looking  up  at  Edouard  with  a 
steady,  searching  gaze.  But  Edouard  saw  in  him 
both  a  disciple  and  a  master.  He  saw  that  this 
man  was  lifted  up  and  carried  with  him,  that  he 
understood  the  message  of  the  music.  The  notes 
of  the  violin  sank  lower  and  lower,  until  they 
melted  into  the  silence  of  the  room,  and  the  peo- 
ple, freed  of  the  spell  the  music  had  put  upon 
them,  applauded  generously.  Edouard  placed 
his  violin  under  his  arm,  and  with  his  eyes,  which 
had  never  left  Corbin's  face,  still  fastened  upon 
his,  bowed  low  to  him,  and  Corbin  raised  his  head 


La  Lettre  d  Amour 

and  nodded  gravely.  It  was  as  though  they  were 
the  only  people  in  the  room.  As  Edouard  re~ 
treated  his  face  was  shining  with  triumph,  for  he 
knew  that  the  other  had  understood  him,  and  that 
the  other  knew  that  he  knew. 

That  night  until  he  fell  asleep,  and  all  of  the 
day  following,  the  beautiful  face  of  Miss  Warriner 
troubled  Edouard,  and  the  thought  of  her  alter- 
nately thrilled  and  depressed  him.  One  moment 
he  mocked  at  himself  for  presuming  to  think  that 
his  simple  art  could  reach  the  depths  of  such  a 
nature,  and  the  next  he  stirred  himself  to  hope 
that  he  should  see  her  once  again,  and  that  he 
should  succeed  where  he  had  failed. 

The  music  had  moved  Corbin  so  deeply  that 
when  he  awoke  the  day  following  the  effect  of  it 
still  hung  upon  him.  It  seemed  to  him  as  though 
all  he  had  been  trying  to  tell  Miss  Warriner  of 
his  love  for  her,  and  which  he  had  failed  to  make 
her  understand  in  the  last  three  months,  had  been 
expressed  in  the  one  moment  of  this  song.  It 
was  that  in  it  which  had  so  enchanted  him.  It 
was  as  though  he  had  listened  to  his  own  deepest 
and  most  sacred  thoughts,  uttered  for  the  first 
time  convincingly,  and  by  a  stranger.  Why  was 
it,  he  asked  himself,  that  this  unknown  youth 
could  translate  another's  feelings  into  music,  when 
he  himself  could  not  put  them  into  words  ?  He 

238 


La  Lettre  cTAmour 

was  walking  in  Piccadilly,  deep  in  this  thought, 
when  a  question  came  to  him  which  caused  him 
to  turn  rapidly  into  Green  Park,  where  he  could 
consider  it  undisturbed. 

The  doubt  which  had  so  suddenly  presented 
itself  was  in  some  degree  the  same  one  which  had 
stirred  Edouard.  Was  it  that  he  was  really  un- 
able to  express  his  feelings,  or  was  it  that  Miss 
Warriner  could  not  understand  them  ?  Was  it 
really  something  lacking  in  him,  or  was  it  not 
something  lacking  in  her?  He  flushed  at  the 
disloyalty  of  the  thought  and  put  it  from  him ; 
but,  as  his  memory  reached  back  over  the  past 
three  months,  the  question  returned  again  and 
again  with  fresh  force,  and  would  not  be  denied. 
He  called  himself  a  fatuous,  conceited  fool.  Be- 
cause he  could  not  make  a  woman  love  him  other 
men  could  do  so.  That  was  really  the  answer ; 
he  was  not  the  man.  But  the  answer  did  not 
seem  final.  What,  after  all,  was  the  thing  his 
love  sought — a  woman  only,  or  a  woman  capable 
of  deep  and  great  feeling?  Even  if  he  could  not 
inspire  such  emotions,  even  if  another  could,  he 
would  still  be  content  and  proud  to  love  a  woman 
capable  of  such  deep  feelings.  But  if  she  were 
without  them  ?  At  the  thought,  Corbin  stared 
blankly  before  him  as  though  he  had  stumbled 
against  a  stone  wall.  What  sign  had  she  evei 

239 


La  Lettre  d'Amour 

given  him  that  she  could  care  greatly  ?  Was  not 
any  form  of  emotion  always  distasteful  to  her? 
Was  not  her  mind  always  occupied  with  abstract 
questions  ?  Was  she  not  always  engaged  in  her 
own  self-improvement — with  schemes,  it  is  true, 
for  bettering  the  world ;  but  did  her  heart  ever 
ache  once  for  the  individual  ?  What  was  it,  then, 
he  loved?  Something  he  imagined  this  girl  to 
be,  or  was  he  in  love  with  the  fact  that  his  own 
nature  had  been  so  mightily  stirred  ?  Was  it  not 
the  joy  of  caring  greatly  which  had  carried  him 
along  ?  And  if  this  was  so,  was  he  now  to  con- 
tinue to  proffer  this  devotion  to  one  who  could 
not  feel,  to  a  statue,  to  an  idol  ?  Were  not  the 
very  things  which  rendered  her  beautiful  the 
offerings  which  he  himself  had  hung  upon  her 
altar?  Did  the  qualities  he  really  loved  in  her 
exist?  Was  he  not  on  the  brink  of  casting  his 
love  before  one  who  could  neither  feel  it  for  him 
nor  for  any  other  man  ?  He  stood  up,  trembling 
and  frightened.  Even  though  the  girl  had  re- 
jected him  again  and  again,  he  felt  a  hateful  sense 
of  disloyalty.  He  was  ashamed  to  confess  it  to 
himself,  and  he  vowed,  hotly,  that  he  must  be 
wrong,  that  he  would  not  believe.  He  would 
still  worship  her,  fight  for  her,  and  force  her  to 
care  for  him. 

Mrs.  Warriner  and  her  daughter  were  to  sail 
240 


La  Lettre  cT Amour 

on  the  morrow,  and  that  night  they  met  Corbin 
at  dinner  for  the  last  time.  After  many  days — 
although  self-accused — he  felt  deeply  conscious 
of  his  recent  lack  of  faith,  and,  in  the  few  hours 
still  left  him,  he  determined  to  atone  for  the  tem- 
porary halt  in  his  allegiance.  They  had  never 
found  him  more  eager,  tactful,  and  considerate 
than  he  was  that  evening.  The  eyes  of  Mrs. 
Warriner  softened  as  she  watched  him.  As  one 
day  had  succeeded  another,  her  admiration  and 
liking  for  him  had  increased,  until  now  she  felt  as 
though  his  cause  was  hers — as  though  she  was  not 
parting  from  a  friend,  but  from  a  son.  But  the 
calmness  of  her  daughter  was  impenetrable;  from 
her  manner  it  was  impossible  to  learn  whether 
the  approaching  separation  was  a  relief  or  a 
regret. 

To  Edouard  the  return  of  the  beautiful  girl  to 
the  restaurant  appeared  not  as  an  accident,  but  as 
a  marked  favor  vouchsafed  to  him  by  Fate.  He 
had  been  given  a  second  chance.  He  read  it  as 
a  sign  that  he  should  take  heart  and  hope.  He 
felt  that  fortune  was  indeed  kind.  He  deter- 
mined that  he  would  play  to  her  again,  and  that 
this  time  he  would  not  fail. 

As  the  first  notes  of  La  Lettre  £  Amour  brought 
a  pause  of  silence  in  the  restaurant,  Corbin,  who 

24.1 


La  Lettre  d' Amour 

was  talking  at  the  moment,  interrupted  himself 
abruptly,  and  turned  in  his  chair. 

All  through  the  evening  he  had  been  conscious 
of  the  near  presence  of  the  young  musician.  He 
had  not  forgotten  how,  on  the  night  before,  his 
own  feelings  had  been  interpreted  in  La  Lettre 
£  Amour  >  and  for  some  time  he  had  been  debating 
in  his  mind  as  to  whether  he  would  request 
Edouard  to  play  the  air  again,  or  let  the  evening 
pass  without  again  submitting  himself  to  so  su- 
preme an  assault  upon  his  feelings.  Now  the 
question  had  been  settled  for  him,  and  he  found 
that  it  had  been  decided  as  he  secretly  desired. 
It  was  impossible  to  believe  that  Edouard  was 
the  same  young  man  who  had  played  the  same 
air  on  the  night  previous,  for  Edouard  no  longer 
considered  that  he  was  present  on  sufferance — he 
invited  and  challenged  the  attention  of  the  room ; 
his  music  commanded  it  to  silence.  It  dominated 
all  who  heard  it. 

As  he  again  slowly  approached  the  table  where 
Miss  Warriner  was  seated,  the  eyes  of  everyone 
were  turned  upon  him ;  the  pathos,  the  tender- 
ness of  his  message  seemed  to  speak  to  each ;  the 
fact  that  he  dared  to  offer  such  a  wealth  of  deep 
feeling  to  such  an  audience  was  in  itself  enough 
to  engage  the  attention  of  all.  A  group  of 
Guardsmen,  their  faces  flushed  with  Burgundy 

242 


La  Lettre  d'Amour 

and  pulling  heavily  on  black  cigars,  stared  at  him 
sleepily,  and  then  sat  up,  erect  and  alert,  watching 
him  with  intent,  wide-open  eyes ;  and  at  tables 
which  had  been  marked  by  the  laughter  of  those 
seated  about  them  there  fell  a  sudden  silence. 
Those  who  fully  understood  the  value  of  the 
music  withdrew  into  themselves,  submitting, 
thankfully,  to  its  spell ;  others,  less  susceptible, 
gathered  from  the  bearing  of  those  about  them 
that  something  of  moment  was  going  forward ; 
but  it  was  recognized  by  each,  from  the  most  se- 
vere English  matron  present  down  to  the  young- 
est "  omnibus-boy  "  among  the  waiters,  that  it  was 
a  love-story  which  was  being  told  to  them,  and 
that  in  this  public  place  the  deepest,  most  sacred, 
and  most  beautiful  of  emotions  were  finding  noble 
utterance. 

The  music  filled  Corbin  with  desperate  longing 
and  regret.  It  was  so  truly  the  translation  of  his 
own  feelings  that  he  was  alternately  touched  with 
self-pity  and  inspired  to  fresh  resolve.  It  seemed 
to  assure  him  that  love  such  as  his  could  not  en- 
dure without  some  return.  It  emboldened  him 
to  make  still  another  and  a  final  appeal.  Mrs. 
Warriner,with  all  the  other  people  in  the  room,  was 
watching  Edouard,  and  so,  unobserved,  and  hid- 
den by  the  flowers  upon  the  table,  Corbin  leaned 
toward  Miss  Warriner  and  bent  his  head  close  to 

243 


La  Lettre  d'Amour 

hers.     His  eyes  were  burning  with  feeling ;  his 
voice  thrilled  in  unison  to  the  plaint  of  the  violin. 

He  gave  a  toss  of  his  head  in  the  direction 
from  whence  the  music  came. 

"  That  is  what  I  have  been  trying  to  tell  you/' 
he  whispered.  His  voice  was  hoarse  and  shaken. 
"That  is  how  I  care,  but  that  man's  genius  is 
telling  you  for  me.  At  last,  you  must  under- 
stand." In  his  eagerness,  his  words  followed  each 
other  brokenly  and  impetuously.  "  That  is  love," 
he  whispered.  "  That  is  the  real  voice  of  love  in 
all  its  tenderness  and  might,  and — it  is  love  itself. 
Don't  you  understand  it  now?"  he  demanded. 

Miss  Warriner  raised  her  head  and  frowned. 
She  stared  at  Edouard  with  a  pained  expression 
of  perplexity  and  doubt. 

"  He  shows  no  lack  of  feeling,"  she  said,  criti- 
cally, <c  but  his  technic  is  not  equal  to  Ysaye's.** 

<c  Good  God  !  "  Corbin  gasped.  He  sank  away 
from  Miss  Warriner  and  stared  at  her  with  in- 
credulous eyes. 

cc  His  technic,"  he  repeated,  cc  is  not  equal  to 
Ysaye's  ?  "  He  gave  a  laugh  which  might  have 
been  a  sob,  and  sat  up,  suddenly,  with  his  head 
erect  and  his  shoulders  squared.  He  had  the 
shaken  look  of  one  who  has  recovered  from  a 
dangerous  illness.  But  when  he  spoke  again  it 
was  in  the  accents  of  every-day  politeness, 

244 


1 

V 


La  Lettre  d'Amour 

At  an  early  hour  the  following  morning,  Mrs. 
Warriner  and  her  daughter  left  Waterloo  Station 
on  the  steamer-train  for  Southampton,  and  Corbin 
attended  them  up  to  the  moment  of  the  train's 
departure.  He  concerned  himself  for  their  com- 
fort as  conscientiously  as  he  had  always  done 
throughout  the  last  three  months,  when  he  had 
been  their  travelling-companion ;  nothing  could 
have  been  more  friendly,  more  sympathetic,  than 
his  manner.  This  effort,  which  Mrs.  Warriner 
was  sure  cost  him  much,  touched  her  deeply. 
But  when  he  shook  Miss  Warriner's  hand  and 
she  said,  cc  Good-by,  and  write  to  us  before  you 
go  to  the  Philippines/'  Corbin  for  the  first  time 
stammered  in  some  embarrassment. 

"  Good-by,"  he  said  ;  cc  I — I  am  not  sure  that 
I  shall  go." 

He  dined  at  the  Savoy  again  that  night,  in 
company  with  some  Englishmen.  They  sat  at  a 
table  in  the  corner  where  they  could  observe  the 
whole  extent  of  the  room,  and  their  talk  was 
eager  and  their  laughter  constant  and  hearty.  It 
was  only  when  the  boy  who  led  the  orchestra  be- 
gan to  walk  among  the  tables,  playing  an  air  of 
peculiar  sadness,  that  Corbin's  manner  lost  its  vi- 
vacity, and  he  sank  into  a  sudden  silence,  with  his 
eyes  fixed  on  the  table  before  him. 

"  That's  odd,"  said  one  of  his  companions.  "  I 
245 


La  Lettre  d' Amour 

say,  Corbin,  look  at  that  chap  I  What's  he  do- 
ing?" 

Corbin  raised  his  eyes.  He  saw  Edouard 
standing  at  the  same  table  at  which  for  the  last 
two  nights  Miss  Warriner  had  been  seated, 
«  What  is  it  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Why,  that  violin  chap,"  said  the  Englishman. 
cc  Don't  you  see  ?  He's  been  playing  to  the  only 
vacant  table  in  the  room,  and  to  an  empty  chair." 


AN    THE    FOG 


In  the  Fog 
i 

*1PHE  Grill  is  the  club  most  difficult  of  access 
in  the  world.  To  be  placed  on  its  rolls 
distinguishes  the  new  member  as  greatly  as  though 
he  had  received  a  vacant  Garter  or  had  been  cari- 
catured in  "  Vanity  Fair." 

Men  who  belong  to  the  Grill  Club  never  men- 
tion that  fact.  If  you  were  to  ask  one  of  them 
which  clubs  he  frequents,  he  will  name  all  save 
that  particular  one.  He  is  afraid  if  he  told  you 
he  belonged  to  the  Grill,  that  it  would  sound  like 
boasting. 

The  Grill  Club  dates  back  to  the  days  wher* 
Shakespeare's  Theatre  stood  on  the  present  site 
of  the  "  Times  "  office.  It  has  a  golden  Grill 
which  Charles  the  Second  presented  to  the  Club, 
and  the  original  manuscript  of  "  Tom  and  Jerry 
in  London,"  which  was  bequeathed  to  it  by 
Pierce  Egan  himself.  The  members,  when  they 
write  letters  at  the  Club,  still  use  sand  to  blot 
the  ink. 

Copyright,  IQOI,  by  Robert  Howard  Russell 


In  the  Fog 

The  Grill  enjoys  the  distinction  of  having 
blackballed,  without  political  prejudice,  a  Prime 
Minister  of  each  party.  At  the  same  sitting  at 
which  one  of  these  fell,  it  elected,  on  account  of 
his  brogue  and  his  bulls,  Quiller,  Q.  C.,  who  was 
then  a  penniless  barrister. 

When  Paul  Preval,  the  French  artist  who  came 
to  London  by  royal  command  to  paint  a  portrait 
of  the  Prince  of  Wales,  was  made  an  honorary 
member — only  foreigners  may  be  honorary  mem- 
bers— he  said,  as  he  signed  his  first  wine-card, "  ! 
would  rather  see  my  name  on  that  than  on  a  pict- 
ure in  the  Louvre." 

At  which  Quiller  remarked,  cc  That  is  a  devil 
of  a  compliment,  because  the  only  men  who  can 
read  their  names  in  the  Louvre  to-day  have  been 
dead  fifty  years." 

On  the  night  after  the  great  fog  of  1897  there 
were  five  members  in  the  Club,  four  of  them  busy 
with  supper  and  one  reading  in  front  of  the  fire- 
place. There  is  only  one  room  to  the  Club,  and 
one  long  table.  At  the  far  end  of  the  room  the 
fire  of  the  grill  glows  red,  and,  when  the  fat  falls, 
blazes  into  flame,  and  at  the  other  there  is  a  broad 
bow-window  of  diamond  panes,  which  looks  down 
upon  the  street.  The  four  men  at  the  table  were 
strangers  to  each  other,  but  as  they  picked  at  the 
grilled  bones,  and  sipped  their  Scotch  and  soda, 

250 


In  the  Fog 

they  conversed  with  such  charming  animation  that 
a  visitor  to  the  Club,  which  does  not  tolerate 
visitors,  would  have  counted  them  as  friends  of 
long  acquaintance,  certainly  not  as  Englishmen 
who  had  met  for  the  first  time,  and  without  the 
form  of  an  introduction.  But  it  is  the  etiquette 
and  tradition  of  the  Grill  that  whoever  enters  it 
must  speak  with  whomever  he  finds  there-  It  is 
to  enforce  this  rule  that  there  is  but  one  long 
table,  and  whether  there  are  twenty  men  at  it  or 
two,  the  waiters,  supporting  the  rule,  will  place 
them  side  by  side. 

For  this  reason  the  four  strangers  at  supper 
were  seated  together,  with  the  candles  grouped 
about  them,  and  the  long  length  of  the  table  cut- 
ting a  white  path  through  the  outer  gloom* 

"  I  repeat,"  said  the  gentleman  with  the  black 
pearl  stud, "  that  the  days  for  romantic  adventure 
and  deeds  of  foolish  daring  have  passed,  and  that 
the  fault  lies  with  ourselves.  Voyages  to  the  pole 
I  do  not  catalogue  as  adventures.  That  African 
explorer,  young  Chetney,  who  turned  up  yester- 
day after  he  was  supposed  to  have  died  in  Ugan- 
da, did  nothing  adventurous.  He  made  maps 
and  explored  the  sources  of  rivers.  He  was  in 
constant  danger,  but  the  presence  of  danger  does 
not  constitute  adventure.  Were  that  so,  the 
chemist  who  studies  high  explosives,  or  who  in- 

251 


In  the  Fog 

vestigates  deadly  poisons,  passes  through  adven- 
tures daily.  No, c  adventures  are  for  the  adven- 
turous/ But  one  no  longer  ventures.  The  spirit 
of  it  has  died  of  inertia.  We  are  grown  too 
practical,  too  just,  above  all,  too  sensible.  In  this 
room,  for  instance,  members  of  this  Club  have, 
at  the  sword's  point,  disputed  the  proper  scan- 
ning of  one  of  Pope's  couplets.  Over  so  weighty 
a  matter  as  spilled  Burgundy  on  a  gentleman's 
cuff,  ten  men  fought  across  this  table,  each  with 
his  rapier  in  one  hand  and  a  candle  in  the  other. 
All  ten  were  wounded.  The  question  of  the 
spilled  Burgundy  concerned  but  two  of  them. 
The  eight  others  engaged  because  they  viere  men 
of  *  spirit/  They  were,  indeed,  the  first  gentlemen 
of  the  day.  To-night,  were  you  to  spill  Bur- 
gundy on  my  cuff,  were  you  even  to  insult  me 
grossly,  these  gentlemen  would  not  consider  it 
incumbent  upon  them  to  kill  each  other.  They 
would  separate  us,  and  to-morrow  morning  ap- 
pear as  witnesses  against  us  at  Bow  Street.  We 
have  here  to-night,  in  the  persons  of  Sir  Andrew 
and  myself,  an  illustration  of  how  the  ways  have 
changed." 

The  men  around  the  table  turned  and  glanced 
coward  the  gentleman  in  front  of  the  fireplace. 
He  was  an  elderly  and  somewhat  portly  person, 
with  a  kindly,  wrinkled  countenance,  which  wore 

252 


I 

.3 
9 


2 
"8   , 

£  8 

JS  ^ 

60  fr 


-0- 

u 

I 

U 

3 


In  the  Fog 

continually  a  smile  of  almos;  childish  confidence 
and  good-nature.  It  was  a  face  which  the  illus- 
trated prints  had  made  intimately  familiar  He 
held  a  book  from  him  at  arm's-lengthj  as  if  to 
adjust  his  eyesight,  and  his  brows  were  knit  with 
interest. 

"  Now,  were  this  the  eighteenth  century,"  con- 
tinued the  gentleman  with  the  black  pearl,  "  when 
Sir  Andrew  left  the  Club  to-night  I  would  have 
him  bound  and  gagged  and  thrown  into  a  sedan 
chair.  The  watch  would  not  interfere,  the  pass- 
ers-by would  take  to  their  heels,  my  hired  bullies 
and  ruffians  would  convey  him  to  some  lonely 
spot  where  we  would  guard  him  until  morning. 
Nothing  would  come  of  it,  except  added  reputa- 
tion to  myself  as  a  gentleman  of  adventurous 
spirit,  and  possibly  an  essay  in  the  *  Tatler,'  with 
stars  for  names,  entitled,  let  us  say,  c  The  Budget 
and  the  Baronet.*  " 

"  But  to  what  end,  sir  ?  "  inquired  the  young- 
est of  the  members.  "  And  why  Sir  Andrew,  of 
all  persons — why  should  you  select  him  for  this 
adventure  ?  " 

The  gentleman  with  the  black  pearl  shrugged 
his  shoulders. 

"It  would  prevent  him  speaking  in  the  House 
to-night.  The  Navy  Increase  Bill/*  he  added, 
gloomily,  <c  It  is  a  Government  measure,  and 

253 


In  the  Fog 

Sir  Andrew  speaks  for  it.  And  so  great  is  his 
influence  and  so  large  his  following  that  if  he 
does  " — the  gentleman  laughed  ruefully — "  if  he 
does,  it  will  go  through.  Now,  had  I  the  spirit 
of  our  ancestors,"  he  exclaimed,  "  I  would  bring 
chloroform  from  the  nearest  chemist's  and  drug 
him  in  that  chair.  I  would  tumble  his  uncon- 
scious form  into  a  hansom-cab,  and  hold  him 
prisoner  until  daylight.  If  I  did,  I  would  save 
the  British  taxpayer  the  cost  of  five  more  battle- 
ships, many  millions  of  pounds." 

The  gentleman  again  turned,  and  surveyed  the 
baronet  with  freshened  interest.  The  honorary 
member  of  the  Grill,  whose  accent  already  had 
betrayed  him  as  an  American,  laughed  softly. 

"  To  look  at  him  now,"  he  said,  "  one  would 
not  guess  he  was  deeply  concerned  with  the  affairs 
of  state." 

The  others  nodded  silently  e 

"He  has  not  lifted  his  eyes  from  that  book 
since  we  first  entered,"  added  the  youngest  mem- 
ber. "He  surely  cannot  mean  to  speak  to- 
night." 

"  Oh,  yes,  he  will  speak,"  muttered  the  one 
with  the  black  pearl,  moodily.  "  During  these 
last  hours  of  the  session  the  House  sits  late,  but 
when  the  Navy  bill  comes  up  on  its  third  reading 
he  will  be  in  his  place — and  he  will  pass  it." 

254 


In  the  Fog 

The  fourth  member,  a  stout  and  florid  gentle- 
man  of  a  somewhat  sporting  appearance,  in  a  short 
smoking-jacket  and  black  tie,  sighed  enviously, 

<c  Fancy  one  of  us  being  as  cool  as  that,  if  he 
knew  he  had  to  stand  up  within  an  hour  and  rat- 
tle off  a  speech  in  Parliament.  I'd  be  in  a  devil 
of  a  funk  myself.  And  yet  he  is  as  keen  over 
that  book  he's  reading  as  though  he  had  nothing 
before  him  until  bedtime." 

"Yes,  see  how  eager  he  is,"  whispered  the 
youngest  member.  "  He  does  not  lift  his  eyes 
even  now  when  he  cuts  the  pages.  It  is  proba- 
bly an  Admiralty  Report,  or  some  other  weighty 
work  of  statistics  which  bears  upon  his  speech." 

The  gentleman  with  the  black  pearl  laughed 
morosely. 

"  The  weighty  work  in  which  the  eminent 
statesman  is  so  deeply  engrossed,"  he  said,  "  is 
called  c  The  Great  Rand  Robbery.'  It  is  a  de- 
tective novel  for  sale  at  all  bookstalls." 

The  American  raised  his  eyebrows  in  disbe- 
lief. 

"cThe  Great  Rand  Robbery'?  "  he  repeated, 
incredulously.  "  What  an  odd  taste  !  " 

"  It  is  not  a  taste,  it  is  his  vice,"  returned  the 
gentleman  with  the  pearl  stud.  "  It  is  his  one 
dissipation.  He  is  noted  for  it.  You,  as  a 
stranger,  could  hardly  be  expected  to  know  of 

255 


In  the  Fog 

this  idiosyncrasy,  Mr,  Gladstone  sought  relaxa- 
tion  in  the  Greek  poets,  Sir  Andrew  finds  his  in 
Gaboriau.  Since  I  have  been  a  member  of  Parlia- 
ment, 1  have  never  seen  him  in  the  library  with- 
out a  shilling  shocker  in  his  hands.  He  brings 
them  even  into  the  sacred  precincts  of  the  House, 
and  from  the  Government  benches  reads  them 
concealed  inside  his  hat.  Once  started  on  a  tale 
of  murder,  robbery,  and  sudden  death,  nothing 
can  tear  him  from  it,  not  even  the  call  of  the  di- 
vision-bell,  nor  of  hunger,  nor  the  prayers  of  the 
party  Whip.  He  gave  up  his  country  house 
because  when  he  journeyed  to  it  in  the  train  he 
would  become  so  absorbed  in  his  detective-stories 
that  he  was  invariably  carried  past  his  station." 
The  member  of  Parliament  twisted  his  pearl  stud 
nervously,  and  bit  at  the  edge  of  his  mustache. 
**  If  it  only  were  the  first  pages  of  c  The  Rand 
Robbery '  that  he  were  reading/*  he  murmured 
bitterly,  "  instead  of  the  last !  With  such  another 
book  as  that,  I  swear  I  could  hold  him  here  until 
morning.  There  would  be  no  need  of  chloroform 
to  keep  him  from  the  House." 

The  eyes  of  all  were  fastened  upon  Sir  Andrew, 
and  each  saw,  with  fascination,  that,  with  his  fore- 
finger, he  was  now  separating  the  last  two  pages 
of  the  book.  The  member  of  Parliament  struck 
the  table,  softly,  with  his  open  palm. 

256 


In  the  Fog 

"  I  would  give  a  hundred  pounds,**  he  whis* 
pered,  "  if  1  could  place  in  his  hands  at  this  mo* 
ment  a  new  story  of  Sherlock  Holmes — a  thou- 
sand pounds/'  he  added,  wildly — "  five  thousand 
pounds ! " 

The  American  observed  the  speaker  sharply, 
as  though  the  words  bore  to  him  some  special 
application,  and  then,  at  an  idea  which  apparently 
had  but  just  come  to  him,  smiled,  in  great  embar- 
rassment. 

Sir  Andrew  ceased  reading,  but,  as  though  still 
under  the  influence  of  the  book,  sat  looking, 
blankly,  into  the  open  fire.  For  a  brief  space,  no 
one  moved  until  the  baronet  withdrew  his  eyes 
and,  with  a  sudden  start  of  recollection,  felt, 
anxiously,  for  his  watch.  He  scanned  its  face 
eagerly,  and  scrambled  to  his  feet. 

The  voice  of  the  American  instantly  broke  the 
silence  in  a  high,  nervous  accent. 

"  And  yet  Sherlock  Holmes  himself,"  he  cried, 
cc  could  not  decipher  the  mystery  which  to-night 
baffles  the  police  of  London." 

At  these  unexpected  words,  which  carried  in 
them  something  of  the  tone  of  a  challenge,  the 
gentlemen  about  the  table  started  as  suddenly  as 
though  the  American  had  fired  a  pistol  in  the  air, 
and  Sir  Andrew  halted,  abruptly,  and  stood 
observing  him  with  grave  surprise, 

257 


In  the  Fog 

The  gentleman  with  the  black  pearl  was  tne 
first  to  recover. 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  said,  eagerly,  throwing  himself 
across  the  table.  "A  mystery  that  baffles  the 
police  of  London.  I  have  heard  nothing  of  it. 
Tell  us  at  once,  pray  do — tell  us  at  once." 

The  American  flushed  uncomfortably,  and 
picked,  uneasily,  at  the  table-cloth. 

"  No  one  but  the  police  has  heard  of  it,"  he 
murmured,  "  and  they  only  through  me.  It  is  a 
remarkable  crime,  to  which,  unfortunately,  I  am 
the  only  person  who  can  bear  witness.  Because 
I  am  the  only  witness,  I  am,  in  spite  of  my  im- 
munity as  a  diplomat,  detained  in  London  by  the 
authorities  of  Scotland  Yard.  My  name,"  he 
said,  inclining  his  head,  politely, cc  is  Sears,  Lieu- 
tenant Ripley  Sears,  of  the  United  States  Navy, 
at  present  Naval  Attache  to  the  Court  of  Russia. 
Had  I  not  been  detained  to-day  by  the  police,  I 
would  have  started  this  morning  for  Petersburg." 

The  gentleman  with  the  black  pearl  interrupted 
with  so  pronounced  an  exclamation  of  excitement 
and  delight  that  the  American  stammered  and 
ceased  speaking. 

"Do  you  hear,  Sir  Andrew?"  cried  the  mem- 
ber of  Parliament, jubilantly.  "An  American 
diplomat  halted  by  our  police  because  he  is  the 
only  witness  of  a  most  remarkable  crime — the 

258 


In  the  Fog 

most  remarkable  crime,  I  believe  you  said,  sir,'* 
he  added,  bending  eagerly  toward  the  naval  officer, 
"  which  has  occurred  in  London  in  many  years." 

The  American  moved  his  head  in  assent,  and 
glanced  at  the  two  other  members.  They  were 
looking,  doubtfully,  at  him,  and  the  face  of  each 
showed  that  he  was  greatly  perplexed. 

Sir  Andrew  advanced  to  within  the  light  of  the 
candles  and  drew  a  chair  toward  him. 

"  The  crime  must  be  exceptional,  indeed,**  he 
said,  "  to  justify  the  police  in  interfering  with  a 
representative  of  a  friendly  power.  If  I  were  not 
forced  to  leave  at  once,  I  should  take  the  liberty 
of  asking  you  to  tell  us  the  details.** 

The  gentleman  with  the  pearl  pushed  the  chair 
toward  Sir  Andrew,  and  motioned  him  to  be 
seated. 

"  You  cannot  leave  us  now,"  he  exclaimed* 
cc  Mr.  Sears  is  just  about  to  tell  us  of  this  remark- 
able crime." 

He  nodded,  vigorously,  at  the  naval  officer  and 
the  American,  after  first  glancing,  doubtfully,  tow- 
ard the  servants  at  the  far  end  of  the  room,  and 
leaned  forward  across  the  table.  The  others  drew 
their  chairs  nearer  and  bent  toward  him.  The 
baronet  glanced,  irresolutely,  at  his  watch,  and,  with 
an  exclamation  of  annoyance,  snapped  down  the 
lid.  "  They  can  wait,*'  he  muttered.  He  seated 

25  Q 


In  the  Fog 

himself  quickly,,  and  nodded  at  Lieutenant 
Sears. 

"If  you  will  be  so  kind  as  to  begin,  sir,"  he 
said,  impatiently. 

"  Of  course,"  said  the  American,  "you  under- 
stand that  I  understand  that  I  am  speaking  to 
gentlemen.  The  confidences  of  this  Club  are  in- 
violate. Until  the  police  give  the  facts  to  the 
public  press,  I  must  consider  you  my  confeder- 
ates. You  have  heard  nothing,  you  know  no  one 
connected  with  this  mystery.  Even  I  must  remain 
anonymous." 

The  gentlemen  seated  around  him  nodded 
gravely. 

"  Of  course,"  the  baronet  assented,  with  eager- 
ness, "  of  course/* 

"  We  will  refer  to  it,"  said  the  gentleman  with 
the  black  pearl,  "as  'The  Story  of  the  Naval 
Attache/  " 

"  I  arrived  in  London  two  days  ago,"  said  thcs 
American,  "  and  I  engaged  a  room  at  the  Bath 
Hotel.  I  know  very  few  people  in  London,  and 
even  the  members  of  our  embassy  were  strangers 
to  me.  But  in  Hong  Kong  I  had  become  great 
pals  with  an  officer  in  your  navy,  who  has  since 
retired,  and  who  is  now  living  in  a  small  house  in 
Rutland  Gardens,  opposite  the  Knightsbridge  Bar- 
tacks,  I  telegraphed  him  that  I  was  in  London, 

260 


In  the  Fog 

and  yesterday  morning  1  received  a  most  hearty 
nnvitation  to  dine  with  him  the  same  evening  at 
his  house.  He  is  a  bachelor,  so  we  dined  alone 
and  talked  over  all  our  old  days  on  the  Asiatic 
Station,  and  of  the  changes  which  had  come  to  us 
since  we  had  last  met  there.  As  1  was  leaving  the 
next  morning  for  my  post  at  Petersburg,  and  had 
many  letters  to  write,  1  told  him,  about  ten  o  clock, 
that  I  must  get  back  to  the  hotel,  and  he  sent  out 
his  servant  to  call  a  hansom. 

cc  For  the  next  quarter  of  an  hour,  as  we  sat 
talking,  we  could  hear  the  cab-whistle  sounding, 
violently,  from  the  doorstep,  but  apparently  with 
no  result, 

"clt  cannot  be  that  the  cabmen  are  on  strike, 
my  friend  said,  as  he  rose  and  walked  to  the 
window 

"He  puiied  back  the  curtains  and  at  once 
called  to  me 

"'You  have  never  seen  a  London  fog,  have 
you?"  he  asked  '  Well,  come  here  This  is  one 
of  the  best,  or,  rather,  one  of  the  worst,  of  them. 
I  joined  him  at  the  window,  but  I  could  see 
nothing.  Had  I  not  known  that  the  house  looked 
out  upon  the  street  1  would  have  believed  that  I 
was  facing  a  dead  wall  1  raised  the  sash  and 
stretched  out  my  head,  but  still  I  could  see  noth- 
ing, Even  the  light  of  the  street-lamps,  opposite* 

261 


In  the  Fog 

and  in  the  upper  windows  of  the  barracks,  had 
been  smothered  in  the  yellow  mist.  The  lights 
of  the  room  in  which  I  stood  penetrated  the  fog 
only  to  the  distance  of  a  few  inches  from  my  eyes, 

"  Below  me  the  servant  was  still  sounding  his 
whistle,  but  I  could  afford  to  wait  no  longer,  and 
told  my  friend  that  I  would  try  and  find  the  way 
to  my  hotel  on  foot.  He  objected,  but  the  letters 
I  had  to  write  were  for  the  Navy  Department, 
and,  besides,  I  had  always  heard  that  to  be  out  in 
a  London  fog  was  the  most  wonderful  experience, 
and  I  was  curious  to  investigate  one  for  myself. 

"  My  friend  went  with  me  to  his  front  door, 
and  laid  down  a  course  for  me  to  follow.  I  was 
first  to  walk  straight  across  the  street  to  the  brick 
wall  of  the  Knightsbridge  Barracks.  I  was  then 
to  feel  my  way  along  the  wall  until  I  came  to  a 
row  of  houses  set  back  from  the  sidewalk.  They 
would  bring  me  to  a  cross  street.  On  the  other 
side  of  this  street  was  a  row  of  shops  which  I  was 
to  follow  until  they  joined  the  iron  railings  of 
Hyde  Park.  I  was  to  keep  to  the  railings  until 
I  reached  the  gates  at  Hyde  Park  Corner,  where 
I  was  to  lay  a  diagonal  course  across  Piccadilly, 
and  tack  in  toward  the  railings  of  Green  Park. 
At  the  end  of  these  railings,  going  east,  I  would 
£nd  the  Walsingham,  and  my  own  hotel. 

"  To  a  sailor  the  course  did  not  seem  difficult^ 
262 


In  the  Fog 

so  I  bade  my  friend  good-night  and  walked  for- 
ward until  my  feet  touched  the  paving.  1  con« 
tinued  upon  it  until  I  reached  the  curbing  of  the 
sidewalk.  A  few  steps  further,  and  my  hands 
struck  the  wall  of  the  barracks.  I  turned  in  the 
direction  from  which  I  had  just  come,  and  saw  a 
square  of  faint  light  cut  in  the  yellow  fog  I 
shouted,  c  All  right/  and  the  voice  of  my  friend 
answered,  'Good  luck  to  you/  The  light  from 
his  open  door  disappeared  with  a  bang,  and  I  was 
left  alone  in  a  dripping,  yellow  darkness.  I  have 
been  in  the  Navy  for  ten  years,  but  I  have  never 
known  such  a  fog  as  that  of  last  night,  not  even 
among  the  icebergs  of  Bearing  Sea.  There  one 
at  least  could  see  the  light  of  the  binnacle,  but 
last  night  I  could  not  even  distinguish  the  hand 
by  which  I  guided  myself  along  the  barrack-wall. 
At  sea  a  fog  is  a  natural  phenomenon.  It  is  as 
familiar  as  the  rainbow  which  follows  a  storm,  it  is 
as  proper  that  a  fog  should  spread  upon  the  waters 
as  that  steam  shall  rise  from  a  kettle.  But  a 
fog  which  springs  from  the  paved  streets,  that  rolls 
between  solid  house-fronts,  that  forces  cabs  to 
move  at  half  speed,  that  drowns  policemen  and 
extinguishes  the  electric  lights  of  the  music-hall, 
that  to  me  is  incomprehensible.  It  is  as  out  of 
place  as  a  tidal  wave  on  Broadway. 

"As  I  felt  my  way  along  the  wall,  I  encountered 
263 


In  the  Fog 

other  men  who  were  coming  from  the  opposite 
direction,  and  each  time  when  we  hailed  each  othei 
I  stepped  away  from  the  wall  to  make  room  for 
them  to  pass.  But  the  third  time  1  did  this, 
when  1  reached  out  my  hand,  the  wall  had  dis- 
appeared^ and  the  further  1  moved  to  find  it 
the  further  I  seemed  to  be  sinking  into  space.  1 
had  the  unpleasant  conviction  that  at  any  moment 
I  might  step  over  a  precipice.  Since  I  had  set 
out,  1  had  heard  no  traffic  in  the  street,  and  now, 
although  I  listened  some  minutes,  1  could  only 
distinguish  the  occasional  footfalls  of  pedestrians. 
Several  times  1  called  aloud,  and  once  a  jocular 
gentleman  answered  me,  but  only  to  ask  me 
where  1  thought  he  was,  and  then  even  he  was 
swallowed  up  in  the  silence.  Just  above  me  I 
could  make  out  a  jet  of  gas  which  1  guessed  came 
from  a  street-lamp,  and  I  moved  over  to  that,  and, 
while  I  tried  to  recover  my  bearings,  kept  my 
hand  on  the  iron  post.  Except  for  this  flicker  of 
gas,  no  larger  than  the  tip  of  my  finger,  I  could 
distinguish  nothing  about  me.  For  the  rest,  the 
mist  hung  between  me  and  the  world  like  a  damp 
and  heavy  blanket. 

"  I  could  hear  voices,  but  I  could  not  tell  from 
whence  they  came,  and  the  scrape  of  a  foot,  mov- 
ing cautiously,  or  a  muffled  cry  as  someone 
stumbled,  were  the  only  sounds  that  reached  me, 

264 


In  the  Fog 

"  I  decided  that  until  someone  took  me  in 
I  had  best  remain  where  I  was,  and  it  must  have 
been  for  ten  minutes  that  I  waited  by  the  lamp, 
straining  my  ears  and  hailing  distant  footfalls.  In 
a  house  near  me  some  people  were  dancing  to  the 
music  of  a  Hungarian  band.  I  even  fancied  I 
could  hear  the  windows  shake  to  the  rhythm  of 
their  feet,  but  1  could  not  make  out  from  which 
part  of  the  compass  the  sounds  came.  And  some- 
times, as  the  music  rose,  it  seemed  close  at  my 
hand,  and,  again,  to  be  floating  high  in  the  air 
above  my  head.  Although  I  was  surrounded  by 
thousands  of  householders,  I  was  as  completely  lost 
as  though  I  had  been  set  down  by  night  in  the 
Sahara  Desert.  There  seemed  to  be  no  reason 
in  waiting  longer  for  an  escort,  so  I  again  set 
out,  and  at  once  bumped  against  a  low,  iron  fence. 
At  first  I  believed  this  to  be  an  area  railing,  but, 
on  following  it,  I  found  that  it  stretched  for  a  long 
distance,  and  that  it  was  pierced  at  regular  inter- 
vals with  gates.  I  was  standing,  uncertainly,  with 
my  hand  on  one  of  these,  when  a  square  of  light 
Suddenly  opened  in  the  night,  and  in  it  I  saw,  as 
you  see  a  picture  thrown  by  a  biograph  in  a 
darkened  theatre,  a  young  gentleman  in  evening 
dress,  and,  back  of  him,  the  lights  of  a  hall.  I 
guessed,  from  its  elevation  and  distance  from  the 
sidewalk,  that  this  light  must  come  from  the  doof 

265 


In  the  Fog 

of  a  house  set  back  from  the  street,  and  I  deter- 
mined to  approach  it  and  ask  the  young  man  to  tell 
me  where  I  was.  But,  in  fumbling  with  the  lock  of 
the  gate,  I  instinctively  bent  my  head,  and  when 
I  raised  it  again  the  door  had  partly  closed,  leav- 
ing only  a  narrow  shaft  of  light.  Whether  the 
young  man  had  re-entered  the  house,  or  had  left 
it  I  could  not  tell,  but  I  hastened  to  open  the 
gate,  and  as  I  stepped  forward  I  found  myself 
upon  an  asphalt  walk.  At  the  same  instant  there 
was  the  sound  of  quick  steps  upon  the  path,  and 
someone  rushed  past  me.  I  called  to  him,  but 
he  made  no  reply,  and  I  heard  the  gate  click  and 
the  footsteps  hurrying  away  upon  the  sidewalk. 

"  Under  other  circumstances  the  young  man's 
rudeness,  and  his  recklessness  in  dashing  so 
hurriedly  through  the  mist,  would  have  struck  me 
as  peculiar,  but  everything  was  so  distorted  by  the 
fog  that  at  the  moment  I  did  not  consider  it.  The 
door  was  still  as  he  had  left  it,  partly  open.  I 
went  up  the  path,  and,  after  much  fumbling, 
found  the  knob  of  the  door-bell  and  gave  it  a 
sharp  pull.  The  bell  answered  me  from  a  great 
depth  and  distance,  but  no  movement  followed 
from  inside  the  house,  and,  although  I  pulled  the 
bell  again  and  again,  I  could  hear  nothing  save  the 
dripping  of  the  mist  about  me.  I  was  anxious  to 
be  on  my  way,  but  unless  I  knew  where  I  was 

266 


In  the  Fog 

going  there  was  little  chance  of  my  making  any 
speed,  and  I  was  determined  that  until  I  learned 
my  bearings  I  would  not  venture  back  into  the 
fog.  So  I  pushed  the  door  open  and  stepped 
into  the  house. 

"  I  found  myself  in  a  long  and  narrow  hall, 
upon  which  doors  opened  from  either  side.  At 
the  end  of  the  hall  was  a  staircase  with  a  balustrade 
which  ended  in  a  sweeping  curve.  The  balustrade 
was  covered  with  heavy,  Persian  rugs,  and  the 
walls  of  the  hall  were  also  hung  with  them.  The 
door  on  my  left  was  closed,  but  the  one  nearer 
me  on  the  right  was  open,  and,  as  I  stepped  oppo- 
site to  it,  I  saw  that  it  was  a  sort  of  reception  or 
waiting-room,  and  that  it  was  empty.  The  door 
below  it  was  also  open,  and,  with  the  idea  that  I 
would  surely  find  someone  there,  I  walked  on 
up  the  hall.  I  was  in  evening  dress,  and  I  felt  I 
did  not  look  like  a  burglar,  so  I  had  no  great  fear 
that,  should  I  encounter  one  of  the  inmates  of 
the  house,  he  would  shoot  me  on  sight.  The 
second  door  in  the  hall  opened  into  a  dining- 
room.  This  was  also  empty.  One  person  had 
been  dining  at  the  table,  but  the  cloth  had  not 
been  cleared  away,  and  a  flickering  candle  showed 
half-filled  wineglasses  and  the  ashes  of  cigarettes. 
The  greater  part  of  the  room  was  in  complete 
darkness. 

267 


In  the  Fog 

"  By  this  time  I  had  grown  conscious  of  the 
fact  that  I  was  wandering  about  in  a  strange  house, 
and  that,  apparently,  I  was  alone  in  it.  The 
silence  of  the  place  began  to  try  my  nerves,  and 
in  a  sudden,  unexplainable  panic  I  started  for  the 
open  street.  But  as  I  turned,  I  saw  a  man  sit- 
ting on  a  bench,  which  the  curve  of  the  balustrade 
had  hidden  from  me.  His  eyes  were  shut,  and 
he  was  sleeping  soundly. 

"The  moment  before  I  had  been  bewildered 
because  I  could  see  no  one,  but  at  sight  of  this 
man  I  was  much  more  bewildered. 

"He  was  a  very  large  man,  a  giant  in  height, 
with  long,  yellow  hair,  which  hung  below  his 
shoulders.  He  was  dressed  in  a  red  silk  shirt, 
that  was  belted  at  the  waist  and  hung  outside 
black  velvet  trousers,  which,  in  turn,  were  stuffed 
into  high,  black  boots.  I  recognized  the  costume 
at  once  as  that  of  a  Russian  servant,  but  what  a 
Russian  servant  in  his  native  livery  could  be  doing 
in  a  private  house  in  Knightsbridge  was  incom- 
prehensible. 

"I  advanced  and  touched  the  man  on  the 
shoulder,  and,  after  an  effort,  he  awoke,  and,  on 
seeing  me,  sprang  to  his  feet  and  began  bowing 
rapidly,  and  making  deprecatory  gestures.  I  had 
picked  up  enough  Russian  in  Petersburg  to  make 
out  that  the  man  was  apologizing  for  having  fall* 

268 


In  the  Fog 

en  asleep,  and  I  also  was  able  to  explain  to  him 
that  I  desired  to  see  his  master. 

"  He  nodded  vigorously,  and  said,  c  Will  the 
Excellency  come  this  way  ?  The  Princess  is  here.* 

"  I  distinctly  made  out  the  word  c  princess/  and 
I  was  a  good  deal  embarrassed.  I  had  thought 
it  would  be  easy  enough  to  explain  my  intrusion 
to  a  man,  but  how  a  woman  would  look  at  it  was 
another  matter,  and  as  I  followed  him  down  the 
the  hall  I  was  somewhat  puzzled. 

"As  we  advanced,  he  noticed  that  the  front  door 
was  standing  open,  and  with  an  exclamation  of 
surprise,  hastened  toward  it  and  closed  it.  Then 
he  rapped  twice  on  the  door  of  what  was  appar- 
ently the  drawing-room.  There  was  no  reply  to 
his  knock,  and  he  tapped  again,  and  then,  timidly, 
and  cringing  subserviently,  opened  the  door  and 
stepped  inside.  He  withdrew  himself  at  once 
and  stared  stupidly  at  me,  shaking  his  head. 

"  c  She  is  not  there/  he  said.  He  stood  for  a 
moment,  gazing  blankly  through  the  open  door, 
and  then  hastened  toward  the  dining-room.  The 
solitary  candle  which  still  burned  there  seemed  to 
assure  him  that  the  room  also  was  empty.  He 
came  back  and  bowed  me  toward  the  drawing-room,, 
'  She  is  above/  he  said ;  f  I  will  inform  the 
Princess  of  the  Excellency's  presence.* 

"  Before  I  could  stop  him,  he  had  turned  and 
269 


In  the  Fog 

was  running  up  the  staircase,  leaving  me  alone 
at  the  open  door  of  the  drawing-room.  I  de- 
cided that  the  adventure  had  gone  quite  far 
enough,  and  if  I  had  been  able  to  explain  to  the 
Russian  that  I  had  lost  my  way  in  the  fog,  and 
only  wanted  to  get  back  into  the  street  again,  I 
would  have  left  the  house  on  the  instant. 

"  Of  course,  when  I  first  rang  the  bell  of  the 
house  I  had  no  other  expectation  than  that  it 
would  be  answered  by  a  parlor-maid  who  would 
direct  me  on  my  way.  I  certainly  could  not  then 
foresee  that  I  would  disturb  a  Russian  princess  in 
her  boudoir,  or  that  I  might  be  thrown  out  by 
her  athletic  bodyguard.  Still,  I  thought  I  ought 
not  now  to  leave  the  house  without  making  some 
apology,  and,  if  the  worst  should  come,  I  could 
show  my  card.  They  could  hardly  believe  that 
a  member  of  an  Embassy  had  any  designs  upon 
the  hat-rack. 

"  The  room  in  which  I  stood  was  dimly  lighted, 
but  I  could  see  that,  like  the  hall,  it  was  hung 
with  heavy,  Persian  rugs.  The  corners  were  filled 
with  palms,  and  there  was  the  unmistakable  odor 
in  the  air  of  Russian  cigarettes,  and  strange,  dry 
scents  that  carried  me  back  to  the  bazaars  of  Vladi- 
vostock.  Near  the  front  windows  was  a  grand 
piano,  and  at  the  other  end  of  the  room  a  heavily 
carved  screen  of  some  black  wood,  picked  out  with 

270 


In  the  Fog 

ivory.  The  screen  was  overhung  with  a  canopy 
of  silken  draperies,  and  formed  a  sort  of  alcove, 
In  front  of  the  alcove  was  spread  the  white  skin 
of  a  polar  bear,  and  set  on  that  was  one  of  those 
low,  Turkish  coffee-tables.  It  held  a  lighted  spirit- 
lamp  and  two  gold  coffee-cups.  I  had  heard  no 
movement  from  above  stairs,  and  it  must  have 
been  fully  three  minutes  that  I  stood  waiting, 
noting  these  details  of  the  room  and  wondering  at 
the  delay,  and  at  the  strange  silence. 

"And  then,  suddenly,  as  my  eye  grew  more 
used  to  the  half-light,  I  saw,  projecting  from  be- 
hind the  screen,  as  though  it  were  stretched  along 
the  back  of  a  divan,  the  hand  of  a  man  and  the 
lower  part  of  his  arm.  I  was  as  startled  as  though 
I  had  come  across  a  footprint  on  a  deserted 
island.  Evidently,  the  man  had  been  sitting  there 
since  I  had  come  into  the  room,  even  since  I  had 
entered  the  house,  and  he  had  heard  the  servant 
knocking  upon  the  door.  Why  he  had  not 
declared  himself  I  could  not  understand,  but  I 
supposed  that,  possibly,  he  was  a  guest,  with  no 
reason  to  interest  himself  in  the  Princess's  other 
visitors,  or,  perhaps,  for  some  reason,  he  did  not 
wish  to  be  observed.  I  could  see  nothing  of  him 
except  his  hand,  but  I  had  an  unpleasant  feeling 
that  he  had  been  peering  at  me  through  the  carv- 
ing in  the  screen,  and  that  he  still  was  doing  so. 

271 


In  the  Fog 

I  moved  my  feet  noisily  on  the  floor  and  said, 
tentatively,  c  I  beg  your  pardon.' 

"  There  was  no  reply,  and  the  hand  did  not 
stir.  Apparently,  the  man  was  bent  upon  ignor- 
ing me,  but,  as  all  I  wished  was  to  apologize  for 
my  intrusion  and  to  leave  the  house,  I  walked  up 
to  the  alcove  and  peered  around  it.  Inside  the 
screen  was  a  divan  piled  with  cushions,  and  on 
the  end  of  it  nearer  me  the  man  was  sitting.  He 
was  a  young  Englishman  with  light-yellow  hair 
and  a  deeply  bronzed  face.  He  was  seated  with 
his  arms  stretched  out  along  the  back  of  the  divan, 
and  with  his  head  resting  against  a  cushion.  His 
attitude  was  one  of  complete  ease.  But  his 
mouth  had  fallen  open,  and  his  eyes  were  set  with 
an  expression  of  utter  horror.  At  the  first  glance, 
I  saw  that  he  was  quite  dead. 

"  For  a  flash  of  time  I  was  too  startled  to 
act,  but  in  the  same  flash  I  was  convinced  that 
the  man  had  met  his  death  from  no  accident,  that 
he  had  not  died  through  any  ordinary  failure  of 
of  the  laws  of  nature.  The  expression  on  his 
face  was  much  too  terrible  to  be  misinterpreted. 
It  spoke  as  eloquently  as  words.  It  told  me 
that  before  the  end  had  come  he  had  watched  his 
death  approach  and  threaten  him. 

"  I  was  so  sure  he  had  been  murdered  that  I 
instinctively  looked  on  the  floor  for  the  weapon, 

272 


In  the  Fog 

and,  at  the  same  moment,  ou^  of  concern  for  my 
own  safety,  quickly  behind  m  ?  ;  but  the  silence  ol 
the  house  continued  unbroken. 

"  I  have  seen  a  great  number  of  dead  men  ;  I 
was  on  the  Asiatic  Station  during  the  Japanese- 
Chinese  war.  I  was  in  Port  Arthur  after  the 
massacre.  So  a  dead  man,  for  the  single  reason 
that  he  is  dead,  does  not  repel  me,  and,  though  I 
knew  that  there  was  no  hope  that  this  man  was 
alive,  still,  for  decency's  sake,  I  felt  his  pulse,  and, 
while  I  kept  my  ears  alert  for  any  sound  from  the 
floors  above  me,  I  pulled  open  his  shirt  and 
placed  my  hand  upon  his  heart.  My  fingers  in- 
stantly touched  upon  the  opening  of  a  wound, 
and  as  I  withdrew  them  I  found  them  wet  with 
blood.  He  was  in  evening  dress,  and  in  the  wide 
bosom  of  his  shirt  I  found  a  narrow  slit,  so  nar- 
row that  in  the  dim  light  it  was  scarcely  discern- 
ible. The  wound  was  no  wider  than  the  smallest 
blade  of  a  pocket-knife,  but  when  I  stripped  the 
shirt  away  from  the  chest  and  left  it  bare,  I  found 
that  the  weapon,  narrow  as  it  was,  had  been  long 
enough  to  reach  his  heart.  There  is  no  need  to 
tell  you  how  I  felt  as  I  stood  by  the  body  of  this 
boy,  for  he  was  hardly  older  than  a  boy,  or  of  the 
thoughts  that  came  into  my  head.  I  was  bitterly 
sorry  for  this  stranger,  bitterly  indignant  at  his 
murderer,  and,  at  the  same  time,  selfishly  coa- 

273 


In  the  Fog 

cerned  for  my  own  safety  and  for  the  notoriety 
which  I  saw  was  sure  to  follow.  My  instinct  was 
to  leave  the  body  where  it  lay,  and  to  hide  myself 
in  the  fog,  but  I  also  felt  that  since  a  succession 
of  accidents  had  made  me  the  only  witness  to  a 
crime,  my  duty  was  to  make  myself  a  good  wit- 
ness and  to  assist  to  establish  the  facts  of  this 
murder. 

"  That  it  might,  possibly,  be  a  suicide,  and  not 
a  murder,  did  not  disturb  me  for  a  moment.  The 
fact  that  the  weapon  had  disappeared,  and  the 
expression  on  the  boy's  face  were  enough  to  con- 
vince, at  least  me,  that  he  had  had  no  hand  in  his 
own  death.  I  judged  it,  therefore,  of  the  first 
importance  to  discover  who  was  in  the  house,  or, 
if  they  had  escaped  from  it,  who  had  been  in  the 
house  before  I  entered  it.  I  had  seen  one  man 
leave  it ;  but  all  I  could  tell  of  him  was  that  he 
was  a  young  man,  that  he  was  in  evening  dress, 
and  that  he  had  fled  in  such  haste  that  he  had 
not  stopped  to  close  the  door  behind  him. 

"  The  Russian  servant  I  had  found  apparently 
asleep,  and,  unless  he  acted  a  part  with  supreme 
skill,  he  was  a  stupid  and  ignorant  boor,  and  as 
innocent  of  the  murder  as  myself.  There  was 
still  the  Russian  princess  whom  he  had  expected 
to  find,  or  had  pretended  to  expect  to  find,  in  the 
same  room  with  the  murdered  man.  I  judged 
'  274 


In  the  Fog 

that  she  must  now  be  either  upstairs  with  the  ser- 
vant, or  that  she  had,  without  his  knowledge,  al- 
ready fled  from  the  house.  When  I  recalled  his 
apparently  genuine  surprise  at  not  finding  her  in 
the  drawing-room,  this  latter  supposition  seemed 
the  more  probable.  Nevertheless,  I  decided  that 
it  was  my  duty  to  make  a  search,  and  after  a  sec- 
ond hurried  look  for  the  weapon  among  the  cush- 
ions of  the  divan,  and  upon  the  floor,  I  cautiously 
crossed  the  hall  and  entered  the  dining-room. 

"The  single  candle  was  still  flickering  in  the 
draught,  and  showed  only  the  white  cloth.  The 
rest  of  the  room  was  draped  in  shadows.  I 
picked  up  the  candle,  and,  lifting  it  high  above  my 
head,  moved  around  the  corner  of  the  table. 
Either  my  nerves  were  on  such  a  stretch  that  no 
shock  could  strain  them  further,  or  my  mind  was 
inoculated  to  horrors,  for  I  did  not  cry  out  at 
what  I  saw  nor  retreat  from  it.  Immediately  at 
my  feet  was  the  body  of  a  beautiful  woman,  lying 
at  full  length  upon  the  floor,  her  arms  flung  out 
on  either  side  of  her,  and  her  white  face  and 
shoulders  gleaming,  dully,  in  the  unsteady  light  of 
the  candle.  Around  her  throat  was  a  great  chain 
of  diamonds,  and  the  light  played  upon  these  and 
made  them  flash  and  blaze  in  tiny  flames.  But 
the  woman  who  wore  them  was  dead,  and  I  was 
so  certain  as  to  how  she  had  died  that,  without  an 

275 


In  the  Fog 

instant's  hesitation,  I  dropped  on  my  knees  beside 
her  and  placed  my  hands  above  her  heart.  My 
fingers  again  touched  the  thin  slit  of  a  wound.  I 
had  no  doubt  in  my  mind  but  that  this  was  the 
Russian  princess,  and  when  I  lowered  the  candle 
to  her  face  I  was  assured  that  this  was  so.  Her 
features  showed  the  finest  lines  of  both  the  Slav 
and  the  Jewess  ;  the  eyes  were  black,  the 
hair  blue-black  and  wonderfully  heavy,  and  her 
skin,  even  in  death,  was  rich  in  color.  She  was  a 
surpassingly  beautiful  woman. 

"  I  rose  and  tried  to  light  another  candle  with 
the  one  I  held,  but  I  found  that  my  hand  was  so 
unsteady  that  I  could  not  keep  the  wicks  together. 
It  was  my  intention  to  again  search  for  this  strange 
dagger  which  had  been  used  to  kill  both  the  Eng- 
lish boy  and  the  beautiful  princess,  but  before  I 
could  light  the  second  candle  I  heard  footsteps 
descending  the  stairs,  and  the  Russian  servant 
appeared  in  the  doorway. 

"My  face  was  in  darkness,  or  I  am  sure  that, 
at  the  sight  of  it,  he  would  have  taken  alarm,  for 
at  that  moment  I  was  not  sure  but  that  this  man 
himself  was  the  murderer.  His  own  face  was 
plainly  visible  to  me  in  the  light  from  the  hall, 
and  I  could  see  that  it  wore  an  expression  of  dull 
bewilderment.  I  stepped  quickly  toward  him  and 
took  a  firm  hold  upon  his  wrist* 

276 


In  the  Fog 

** c  She  is  not  there/  he  said.  c  The  Princess 
has  gone.  They  have  all  gone/ 

"  c  Who  have  gone  ? '  I  demanded.  *  Who  else 
has  been  here  ?  * 

" c  The  two  Englishmen/  he  said. 

" c  What    two    Englishmen  ?  '     I    demanded. 

*  What  are  their  names  ? ' 

"  The  man  now  saw  by  my  manner  that  some 
question  of  great  moment  hung  upon  his  answer, 
and  he  began  to  protest  that  he  did  not  know  the 
names  of  the  visitors  and  that  until  that  evening 
he  had  never  seen  them. 

"  I  guessed  that  it  was  my  tone  which  fright- 
ened him,  so  I  took  my  hand  off  his  wrist  and 
spoke  less  eagerly. 

" c  How  long  have  they  been  here  ?  *  I  asked, 

*  and  when  did  they  go  ? ' 

"He  pointed  behind  him  toward  the  drawing- 
room. 

cc  c  One  sat  there  with  the  Princess/  he  said ; 
c  the  other  came  after  I  had  placed  the  coffee  in 
the  drawing-room.  The  two  Englishmen  talked 
together,  and  the  Princess  returned  here  to  the 
table.  She  sat  there  in  that  chair,  and  I  brought 
her  cognac  and  cigarettes.  Then  I  sat  outside 
upon  the  bench.  It  was  a  feast-day,  and  I  had 
been  drinking.  Pardon,  Excellency,  but  I  fell 
asleep.  When  I  woke,  your  Excellency  was 

277 


In  the  Fog 

standing  by  me,  but  the   Princess   and  the  two 
Englishmen  had  gone.     That  is  all  I  know/ 

"  I  believed  that  the  man  was  telling  me  the 
truth.  His  fright  had  passed,  and  he  was  now 
apparently  puzzled,  but  not  alarmed. 

"  c  You  must  remember  the  names  of  the  Eng- 
lishmen,' I  urged.  *  Try  to  think.  When  you 
announced  them  to  the  Princess  what  name  did 
you  give  ?  * 

"  At  this  question  he  exclaimed,  with  pleasure, 
and,  beckoning  to  me,  ran  hurriedly  down  the 
hall  and  into  the  drawing-room.  In  the  corner 
furthest  from  the  screen  was  the  piano,  and 
on  it  was  a  silver  tray.  He  picked  this  up 
and,  smiling  with  pride  at  his  own  intelligence, 
pointed  at  two  cards  that  lay  upon  it.  I  took 
them  up  and  read  the  names  engraved  upon 
them." 

The  American  paused  abruptly,  and  glanced  at 
the  faces  about  him.  "  I  read  the  names,"  he 
repeated.  He  spoke  with  great  reluctance. 

"  Continue  !  "  cried  the  baronet,  sharply. 

cc  I  read  the  names/'  said  the  American  with 
evident  distaste,  "  and  the  family  name  of  each 
was  the  same.  They  were  the  names  of  two 
brothers.  One  is  well  known  to  you.  It  is  that 
of  the  African  explorer  of  whom  this  gentleman 
vas  just  speaking.  I  mean  the  Earl  of  Chetney: 

278 


In  the  Fog 

The   other  was   the  name  of  his   brother,  Lord 
Arthur  Chetney." 

The  men  at  the  table  fell  back  as  though  a 
trapdoor  had  fallen  open  at  their  feet. 

"  Lord  Chetney? "  they  exclaimed,  in  chorus. 
They  glanced  at  each  other  and  back  to  the  Ameri- 
can, with  every  expression  of  concern  and  disbelief. 

"  It  is  impossible!"  cried  the  Baronet.  "Why, 
my  dear  sir,  young  Chetney  only  arrived  from 
Africa  yesterday.  It  was  so  stated  in  the  even- 
ing papers." 

The  jaw  of  the  American  set  in  a  resolute 
square,  and  he  pressed  his  lips  together. 

"  You  are  perfectly  right,  sir,"  he  said,  "  Lord 
Chetney  did  arrive  in  London  yesterday  morn- 
ing, and  yesterday  night  I  found  his  dead  body." 

The  youngest  member  present  was  the  first  to 
recover.  He  seemed  much  less  concerned  over 
the  identity  of  the  murdered  man  than  at  the 
interruption  of  the  narrative. 

"  Oh,  please  let  him  go  on!"  he  cried.  "What 
happened  then?  You  say  you  found  two  visiting- 
cards.  How  do  you  know  which  card  was  that) 
fif  the  murdered  man?" 

The  American,  before  he  answered,  waited 
antil  the  chorus  of  exclamations  had  ceased. 
Then  he  continued  as  though  he  had  not  been 
interrupted. 

279 


In  the  Fog 

"The  instant  I  read  the  names  upon  the 
cards/'  he  said,  "  I  ran  to  the  screen  and,  kneel- 
ing beside  the  dead  man,  began  a  search  through 
his  pockets.  My  hand  at  once  fell  upon  a  card- 
case,  and  I  found  on  all  the  cards  it  contained  the 
title  of  the  Earl  of  Chetney.  His  watch  and 
cigarette-case  also  bore  his  name.  These  evi- 
dences, and  the  fact  of  his  bronzed  skin,  and  that 
his  cheek-bones  were  worn  with  fever,  convinced 
me  that  the  dead  man  was  the  African  explorer, 
and  the  boy  who  had  fled  past  me  in  the  night 
was  Arthur,  his  younger  brother. 

"  I  was  so  intent  upon  my  search  that  I  had 
forgotten  the  servant,  and  I  was  still  on  my  knees 
when  I  heard  a  cry  behind  me.  I  turned,  and 
saw  the  man  gazing  down  at  the  body  in  abject 
horror. 

"  Before  I  could  rise,  he  gave  another  cry 
of  terror,  and,  flinging  himself  into  the  hall,  raced 
toward  the  door  to  the  street.  I  leaped  after 
him,  shouting  to  him  to  halt,  but  before  I  could 
reach  the  hall  he  had  torn  open  the  door,  and  I 
saw  him  spring  out  into  the  yellow  fog.  1 
cleared  the  steps  in  a  jump  and  ran  down  the 
garden-walk  but  just  as  the  gate  clicked  in  front 
of  me.  I  had  it  open  on  the  instant,  and,  follow- 
ing the  sound  of  the  man's  footsteps,  I  raced 
after  him  across  the  open  street.  He,  also,  could 

280 


In  the   Fog 

hear  me,  and  he  instantly  stopped  running,  and 
there  was  absolute  silence.  He  was  so  near  that 
I  almost  fancied  I  could  hear  him  panting,  and  I 
held  my  own  breath  to  listen.  But  I  could  dis- 
tinguish nothing  but  the  dripping  of  the  mist 
about  us,  and  from  far  off  the  music  of  the  Hun- 
garian band,  which  I  had  heard  when  I  first  lost 
myself. 

"  All  I  could  see  was  the  square  of  light  from 
the  door  I  had  left  open  behind  me,  and  a  lamp 
in  the  hall  beyond  it  flickering  in  the  draugnt. 
But  even  as  I  watched  it,  the  flame  of  the  lamp 
was  blown  violently  to  and  fro,  and  the  door, 
caught  in  the  same  current  of  air,  closed  slowly. 
I  knew  if  it  shut  I  could  not  again  enter 
the  house,  and  I  rushed  madly  toward  it,  I 
believe  I  even  shouted  out,  as  though  it  were 
something  human  which  I  could  compel  to  obey 
me,  and  then  I  caught  my  foot  against  the  curb 
and  smashed  into  the  sidewalk.  When  I  rose  to 
my  feet  I  was  dizzy  and  half  stunned,  and  though 
I  thought  then  that  I  was  moving  toward  the 
door,  I  know  now  that  I  probably  turned  directly 
from  it;  for,  as  I  groped  about  in  the  night,  calling 
frantically  for  the  police,  my  fingers  touched  noth- 
ing but  the  dripping  fog,  and  the  iron  railings  for 
which  I  sought  seemed  to  have  melted  away. 
For  many  minutes  I  beat  the  mist  with,  my  arms 

281 


In  the  Fog 

like  one  at  blind  man's  buff,  turning  sharply  in 
circles,  cursing  aloud  at  my  stupidity  and  crying 
continually  for  help.  At  last  a  voice  answered 
me  from  the  fog,  and  I  found  myself  held  in  the 
circle  of  a  policeman's  lantern. 

"  That  is  the  end  of  my  adventure.  What  I 
have  to  tell  you  now  is  what  I  learned  from  the 
police. 

cc  At  the  station-house  to  which  the  man  guided 
me  I  related  what  you  have  just  heard.  I  told 
them  that  the  house  they  must  at  once  find  was 
one  set  back  from  the  street  within  a  radius  of  tv/o 
hundred  yards  from  the  Knightsbridge  Barracks, 
that  within  fifty  yards  of  it  someone  was  giving 
a  dance  to  the  music  of  a  Hungarian  band,  and 
that  the  railings  before  it  were  as  high  as  a  man's 
waist  and  filed  to  a  point.  With  that  to  work 
upon,  twenty  men  were  at  once  ordered  out  into 
the  fog  to  search  for  the  house,  and  Inspector 
Lyle  himself  was  despatched  to  the  home  of  Lord 
Edam,  Chetney's  father,  with  a  warrant  for  Lord 
Arthur's  arrest.  I  was  thanked  and  dismissed 
on  my  own  recognizance. 

"This  morning,  Inspector  Lyle  called  on  me, 
and  from  him  I  learned  the  police  theory  of  the 
scene  I  have  just  described. 

"Apparently,  I  had  wandered  very  far  in  the 
fog,  for  up  to  noon  to-day  the  house  had  not 

282 


In  the  Fog 

been  found,  nor  had  they  been  able  to  arrest  Lord 
Arthur.  He  did  not  return  to  his  father's  house 
last  night,  and  there  is  no  trace  of  him ;  but  from 
what  the  police  knew  of  the  past  lives  of  the  peo- 
ple I  found  in  that  lost  house,  they  have  evolved 
a  theory,  and  their  theory  is  that  the  murders 
were  committed  by  Lord  Arthur. 

cc  The  infatuation  of  his  elder  brother,  Lord 
Chetney,  for  a  Russian  princess,  so  Inspector 
Lyle  tells  me,  is  well  known  to  everyone. 
About  two  years  ago  the  Princess  Zichy,  as  she 
calls  herself,  and  he  were  constantly  together,  and 
Chetney  informed  his  friends  that  they  were 
about  to  be  married.  The  woman  was  notorious 
in  two  continents,  and  when  Lord  Edam  heard 
of  his  son's  infatuation  he  appealed  to  the  police 
for  her  record. 

cc  It  is  through  his  having  applied  to  them 
that  they  know  so  much  concerning  her  and  her 
relations  with  the  Chetneys.  From  the  police 
Lord  Edam  learned  that  Madame  Zichy  had 
once  been  a  spy  in  the  employ  of  the  Russian 
Third  Section,  but  that  lately  she  had  been  re- 
pudiated by  her  own  government  and  was  living  by 
her  wits,  by  blackmail,  and  by  her  beauty.  Lord 
Edam  laid  this  record  before  his  son,  but  Chet- 
ney either  knew  it  already  or  the  womar  per- 
suaded him  not  to  believe  in  it,  and  the  father 

283 


In  the  Fog 

and  son  parted  in  great  anger.  Two  days  later 
the  marquis  altered  his  will,  leaving  all  of  his 
money  to  the  younger  brother,  Arthur. 

"  The  title  and  some  of  the  landed  property 
he  could  not  keep  from  Chetney,  but  he  swore  if 
his  son  saw  the  woman  again  that  the  will  should 
stand  as  it  was,  and  he  would  be  left  without  a 
penny. 

"  This  was  about  eighteen  months  ago,  when, 
apparently,  Chetney  tired  of  the  Princess,  and 
suddenly  went  off  to  shoot  and  explore  in  Cen- 
tral Africa.  No  word  came  from  him,  except 
that  twice  he  was  reported  as  having  died  of  fever 
in  the  jungle,  and  finally  two  traders  reached  the 
coast  who  said  they  had  seen  his  body.  This 
was  accepted  by  all  as  conclusive,  and  young 
Arthur  was  recognized  as  the  heir  to  the  Edam 
millions.  On  the  strength  of  this  supposition 
he  at  once  began  to  borrow  enormous  sums  from 
the  money-lenders.  This  is  of  great  importance, 
as  the  police  believe  it  was  these  debts  which 
drove  him  to  the  murder  of  his  brother. 
Yesterday,  as  you  know,  Lord  Chetney  suddenly 
returned  from  the  grave,  and  it  was  the  fact  that 
for  two  years  he  had  been  considered  as  dead 
which  lent  such  importance  to  his  return  and 
which  gave  rise  to  those  columns  of  detail  con- 
cerning him  which  appeared  in  all  the  afternoon 

28* 


In  the  Fog 

papers.  But,  obviously,  during  his  absence  he 
had  not  tired  of  the  Princess  Zichy,  for  we 
know  that  a  few  hours  after  he  reached  London 
he  sought  her  out.  His  brother,  who  had  also 
learned  of  his  reappearance  through  the  papers, 
probably  suspected  which  would  be  the  house  he 
would  first  visit,  and  followed  him  there,  arriving, 
so  the  Russian  servant  tells  us,  while  the  two 
were  at  coffee  in  the  drawing-room.  The  Prin- 
cess, then,  we  also  learn  from  the  servant,  with- 
Irew  to  the  dining-room,  leaving  the  brothers  to- 
jether.  What  happened  one  can  only  guess. 

"  Lord  Arthur  knew  now  that  when  it  was 
discovered  he  was  no  longer  the  heir,  the  money- 
lenders would  come  down  upon  him.  The 
police  believe  that  he  at  once  sought  out  his 
brother  to  beg  for  money  to  cover  the  post-obits, 
but  that,  considering  the  sum  he  needed  was  sev- 
eral hundreds  of  thousands  of  pounds,  Chettiey 
refused  to  give  it  him.  No  one  knew  that 
Arthur  had  gone  to  seek  out  his  brother.  They 
were  alone.  It  is  possible,  then,  that  in  a  passion 
of  disappointment,  and  crazed  with  the  disgrace 
which  he  saw  before  him,  young  Arthur  made 
himself  the  heir  beyond  further  question.  The 
death  of  his  brother  would  have  availed  nothing 
if  the  woman  remained  alive.  It  is  then  possible 
that  he  crossed  the  hall,  and,  with  the  same  weapon 

285 


In  the  Fog 

which  made  him  Lord  Edam's  heir,  destroyed  the 
solitary  witness  to  the  murder.  The  only  other 
person  who  could  have  seen  it  was  sleeping  in 
a  drunken  stupor,  to  which  fact  undoubtedly  he 
owed  his  life.  And  yet,"  concluded  the  Naval 
Attache,  leaning  forward  and  marking  each  word 
with  his  finger,  "  Lord  Arthur  blundered  fatally. 
In  his  haste  he  left  the  door  of  the  house  open, 
so  giving  access  to  the  first  passer-by,  and  he  for- 
got that  when  he  entered  it  he  had  handed  his 
card  to  the  servant.  That  piece  of  paper  may  yet 
send  him  to  the  gallows.  In  the  meantime,  he 
has  disappeared  completely,  and  somewhere,  in 
one  of  the  millions  of  streets  of  this  great  capital, 
in  a  locked  and  empty  house,  lies  the  body  of 
his  brother,  and  of  the  woman  his  brother  loved, 
undiscovered,  unburied5  and  with  their  murder 
unavenged." 

In  the  discussion  which  followed  the  conclusion 
of  the  story  of  the  Naval  Attache,  the  gentleman 
with  the  pearl  took  no  part.  Instead,  he  arose, 
and,  beckoning  a  servant  to  a  far  corner  of  the 
room,  whispered  earnestly  to  him  until  a  sudden 
movement  on  the  part  of  Sir  Andrew  caused  him 
to  return  hurriedly  to  the  table. 

"  There  are  several  points  in  Mr.  Sears's  story 
I  want  explained,"  he  cried.  "Be  seated,  Sir 
Andrew,"  he  begged.  "  Let  us  have  the  opinion 

286 


In  the  Fog 

of  an  expert.  I  do  not  care  what  the  police  think, 
I  want  to  know  what  you  think." 

But  Sir  Andrew  rose  reluctantly  from  his  chair. 

"  I  should  like  nothing  better  than  to  discuss 
this,"  he  said.  "But  it  is  most  important  that 
1  proceed  to  the  House.  I  should  have  been 
there  some  time  ago."  He  turned  toward  the 
servant  and  directed  him  to  call  a  hansom. 

The  gentleman  with  the  pearl  stud  looked  ap- 
pealingly  at  the  Naval  Attache.  "There  are 
surely  many  details  that  you  have  not  told  us/* 
he  urged.  "  Some  you  have  forgotten/' 

The  Baronet  interrupted  quickly,, 

"  I  trust  not,"  he  said,  "  for  I  could  not  pos« 
sibly  stop  to  hear  them." 

"  The  story  is  finished,"  declared  the  Naval 
Attache ;  <c  until  Lord  Arthur  is  arrested  or  the 
bodies  are  found  there  is  nothing  more  to  tell  of 
either  Chetney  or  the  Princess  Zichy." 

"  Of  Lord  Chetney,  perhaps  not,"  interrupted 
the  sporting-looking  gentleman  with  the  black 
tie,  "  but  there'll  always  be  something  to  tell  of 
the  Princess  Zichy.  1  know  enough  stories  about 
her  to  fill  a  book.  She  was  a  most  remarkable 
woman."  The  speaker  dropped  the  end  of  his 
cigar  into  his  coffee-cup  and,  taking  his  case  from 
his  pocket,  selected  a  fresh  one.  As  he  did  so  he 
^ughed  and  held  up  the  case  that  the  others 

287 


In  the  Fog 

might  see  it.  It  was  an  ordinary  cigar-case  of 
well-worn  pig-skin,  with  a  silver  clasp. 

"The  only  time  I  ever  met  her,"  he  said, 
**  she  tried  to  rob  me  of  this." 

The  Baronet  regarded  him  closely. 

"  She  tried  to  rob  you  ? "  he  repeated. 

"  Tried  to  rob  me  of  this,"  continued  the  gen- 
tleman in  the  black  tie,  "  and  of  the  Czarina's 
diamonds."  His  tone  was  one  of  mingled  ad- 
miration and  injury. 

"The  Czarina's  diamonds!"  exclaimed  the 
Baronet.  He  glanced  quickly  and  suspiciously  at 
the  speaker,  and  then  at  the  others  about  the 
table.  But  their  faces  gave  evidence  of  no  other 
emotion  than  that  of  ordinary  interest. 

"Yes,  the  Czarina's  diamonds,"  repeated  the 
man  with  the  black  tie.  "It  was  a  necklace  of 
diamonds,  I  was  told  to  take  them  to  the  Rus- 
sian Ambassador  in  Paris,  who  was  to  deliver 

'  / 

them  at  Moscow;     I  adi  a  Queen's  Messenger, 
he  added. 

"  Oh,  I  see,"  exclaimed  Sir  Andrew,  in  a  tone 
of  relief.  "  And  you  say  that  this  same  Princess 
Zichy,  one  of  the  victims  of  this  double  murder, 
endeavored  to  rob  you  of — of — that  cigar-case." 

**  And  the  Czarina's  diamonds,"  anwered  the 
Queen's  Messenger,  imperturbably.  "  It's  not 
much  of  a  story,  but  it  gives  you  an  idea  of  the 


In  the  Fog 

woman's  character.     The  robbery  took  place  be* 
tween  Paris  and  Marseilles." 

The  Baronet  interrupted  him  with  an  abrupt 
movement.  "  No,  no/*  he  cried,  shaking  his 
head  in  protest.  "  Do  not  tempt  me.  I  really 
cannot  listen.  I  must  be  at  the  House  in  ten 


minutes." 


"I  am  sorry,"  said  the  Queen's  Messengera 
He  turned  to  those  seated  about  him.  "  I 
wonder  if  the  other  gentlemen — "  he  inquired^ 
tentatively.  There  was  a  chorus  of  polite  mur- 
murs, and  the  Queen's  Messenger,  bowing  his 
head  in  acknowledgment,  took  a  preparatory  sip 
from  his  glass.  At  the  same  moment  the  servant 
to  whom  the  man  with  the  black  pearl  had  spoken, 
slipped  a  piece  of  paper  into  his  hand.  He 
glanced  at  it,  frowned,  and  threw  it  under  the 
table. 

The  servant  bowed  to  the  Baronet. 

"Your  hansom  is  waiting,  Sir  Andrew,'"  he 
said. 

"The  necklace  was  worth  twenty  thousand 
pounds,"  began  the  Queen's  Messenger.  "It 
was  a  present  from  the  Queen  of  England  to 
celebrate — "  The  Baronet  gave  an  exclamation 
of  angry  annoyance. 

"  Upon  my  word,  this  is  most  provoking,"  he 
interrupted.  "  I  really  ought  not  to  stay.  But 


In  the  Fog 

I  certainly  mean  to  hear  this/5*  He  turned  irrita- 
bly to  the  servant  "  Tell  the  hansom  to  wait/" 
he  commanded,  and,  with  an  air  of  a  boy  who  is 
playing  truant,  slipped  guiltily  into  his  chair. 

The  gentleman  with  the  black  pearl  smiled 
blandly,  and  rapped  upon  the  table. 

"  Order,  gentlemen,"  he  said.  "  Order  for  the 
story  of  the  Queen's  Messenger  and  the  Czarina's 
diamonds/' 


u 

**  THE  necklace  was  a  present  from  the  Queer* 
of  England  to  the  Czarina  of  Russia,"  began  the 
Queen's  Messenger,  "It  was  to  celebrate  the 
occasion  of  the  Czar's  coronation.  Our  Foreign 
Office  knew  that  the  Russian  Ambassador  in 
Paris  was  to  proceed  to  Moscow  for  that  cere- 
mony, and  I  was  directed  to  go  to  Paris  and  turn 
over  the  necklace  to  him,,  But  when  I  reached 
Paris  I  found  he  had  not  expected  me  for  a  week 
later  and  was  taking  a  few  days'  vacation  at  Nice., 
His  people  asked  me  to  leave  the  necklace  with 
them  at  the  Embassy,  but  I  had  been  charged  to 
get  a  receipt  for  it  from  the  Ambassador  himself,  so 
I  started  at  once  for  Nice.  The  fact  that  Monte 
Carlo  is  not  two  thousand  miles  from  Nice  may 
have  had  something  to  do  with  making  me  carry 
out  my  instructions  so  carefully. 

cc  Now,  how  the  Princess  Zichy  came  to  find 
out  about  the  necklace  I  don't  know,  but  I  can 
guess.  As  you  have  just  heard,  she  was  at  one 
time  a  spy  in  the  service  of  the  Russian  Govern- 
ment And  after  they  dismissed  her  she  kept  up 

291 


In  the  Fog 

her  acquaintance  with  many  of  the  Russian  agents 
in  London.  It  is  probable  that  through  one  of 
them  she  learned  that  the  necklace  was  to  be  sent 
to  Moscow,  and  which  one  of  the  Queen's  Mes- 
sengers had  been  detailed  to  take  it  there.  Still, 
I  doubt  if  even  that  knowledge  would  have  helped 
her  if  she  had  not  also  known  something  which 
I  supposed  no  one  else  in  the  world  knew  but 
myself  and  one  other  man.  And,  curiously 
enough,  the  other  man  was  a  Queen's  Messenger, 
too,  and  a  friend  of  mine.  You  must  know  that 
up  to  the  time  of  this  robbery  I  had  always  con- 
cealed my  despatches  in  a  manner  peculiarly  my 
own.  I  got  the  idea  from  that  play  called  *  A 
Scrap  of  Paper/  In  it  a  man  wants  to  hide  a  cer- 
tain compromising  document.  He  knows  that  all 
his  rooms  will  be  secretly  searched  for  it,  so  he  puts 
it  in  a  torn  envelope  and  sticks  it  up  where  any- 
one can  see  it  on  his  mantle-shelf.  The  result  is 
ihat  the  woman  who  is  ransacking  the  house  to 
ind  it  looks  in  all  the  unlikely  places,  but  passes 
ver  the  scrap  of  paper  that  is  just  under  her  nose, 
»  ome times  the  papers  and  packages  they  give  us 
tt  carry  about  Europe  are  of  very  great  value,  and 
softtetimes  they  are  special  makes  of  cigarettes, 
and  orders  to  court-dressmakers.  Sometimes  we 
kno^  what  we  are  carrying  and  sometimes  we  do 
not  "f  it  is  a  large  sum  of  money  or  a  treaty, 


In  the  Fog 

they  generally  tell  us.  But,  as  a  rule,  we  hav* 
no  knowledge  of  what  the  package  contains ;  so 
to  be  on  the  safe  side,  we  naturally  take  just  as 
great  care  of  it  as  though  we  knew  it  held  the 
terms  of  an  ultimatum  or  the  crown-jewels*  A<* 
a  rule,  my  confreres  carry  the  official  packages 
in  a  despatch-box,  which  is  just  as  obvious  as  a 
lady's  jewel-bag  in  the  hands  of  her  maid.  Every- 
one knows  they  are  carrying  something  of  valuec 
They  put  a  premium  on  dishonesty.  Well,  after 
I  saw  the  c  Scrap-of-Paper '  play,  I  determined  to 
put  the  government  valuables  in  the  most  un- 
likely place  that  anyone  would  look  for  them. 
So  I  used  to  hide  the  documents  they  gave  me 
inside  my  riding-boots,  and  small  articles,  such  as 
money  or  jewels,  I  carried  in  an  old  cigar-case. 
After  I  took  to  using  my  case  for  that  purpose 
I  bought  a  new  one,  exactly  like  it,  for  my  cigars. 
But,  to  avoid  mistakes,  I  had  my  initials  placed 
on  both  sides  of  the  new  one,  and  the  moment  I 
touched  the  case,  even  in  the  dark,  I  could  tell 
which  it  was  by  the  raised  initials. 

"No  one  knew  of  this  except  the  Queen's 
Messenger  of  whom  I  spoke.  We  once  left  Paris 
together  on  the  Orient  Express.  I  was  going  to 
Constantinople  and  he  was  to  stop  off  at  Vienna. 
On  the  journey  I  told  him  of  my  peculiar  way  at 
hiding  things  and  showed  him  my  cigar-case.  II 

*93 


In  the  Fog 

I  recollect  rightly,  on  that  trip  it  held  the  grand- 
cross  of  St.  Michael  and  St.  George,  which  the 
Queen  was  sending  to  our  Ambassador,  The 
Messenger  was  very  much  entertained  at  my 
scheme,  and  some  months  later  when  he  met  the 
Princess  he  told  her  about  it  as  an  amusing  story  0 
Of  course,  he  had  no  idea  she  was  a  Russian  spyc 
He  didn't  know  anything  at  all  about  her,  except 
that  she  was  a  very  attractive  woman.  It  was  in- 
discreet, but  he  could  not  possibly  have  guessed 
that  she  could  ever  make  any  use  of  what  he  told 
her. 

"  Later,  after  the  robbery,  I  remembered  that 
!  had  informed  this  young  chap  of  my  secret 
hiding-place,  and  when  T  saw  him  again  I  ques- 
tioned him  about  it.  He  was  greatly  distressedj 
and  said  he  had  never  seen  the  importance  of  the 
secret.  He  remembered  he  had  told  several 
people  of  it,  and  among  others  the  Princess  Zichy 
In  that  way  I  found  out  that  it  was  she  who  had 
robbed  me,  and  I  know  that  from  the  moment  I 
left  London  she  was  following  me,  and  that  she 
knew  then  that  the  diamonds  were  concealed  in 
my  cigar-case. 

"  My  train  for  Nice  left  Paris  at  ten  in  the 
morning.  When  I  travel  at  night  I  generally 
tell  the  chef  de  gare  that  I  am  a  Queen's  Mes- 
senger, and  he  gives  me  a  compartment  to  my- 

394 


In  the  Fog 

self,  but  in  the  daytime  I  take  whatever  offers. 
On  this  morning  I  had  found  an  empty  compart- 
ment, and  I  had  tipped  the  guard  to  keep  every- 
one else  out,  not  from  any  fear  of  losing  the  dia- 
monds, but  because  I  wanted  to  smoke.  He  had 
locked  the  door,  and  as  the  last  bell  had  rung  I 
supposed  I  was  to  travel  alone,  so  I  began  to 
arrange  my  traps  and  make  myself  comfortable. 
The  diamonds  in  the  cigar-case  were  in  the  inside 
pocket  of  my  waistcoat,  and  as  they  made  a  bulky 
package,  I  took  them  out,  intending  to  put  them 
in  my  hand-bag.  It  is  a  small  satchel  like  a  book- 
maker's, or  those  hand-bags  that  couriers  carry,, 
I  wear  it  slung  from  a  strap  across  my  shoulders, 
and,  no  matter  whether  I  am  sitting  or  walking, 
it  never  leaves  me. 

"  I  took  the  cigar-case  which  held  the  neck- 
lace from  my  inside  pocket  and  the  case  which 
held  the  cigars  out  of  the  satchel,  and  while  I  was 
searching  through  it  for  a  box  of  matches  I  laid 
the  two  cases  beside  me  on  the  seat. 

"  At  that  moment  the  train  started,  but  at  the 
same  instant  there  was  a  rattle  at  the  lock  of  the 
compartment,  and  a  couple  of  porters  lifted  and 
shoved  a  woman  through  the  door,  and  hurled 
her  rugs  and  umbrellas  in  after  her. 

"  Instinctively  I  reached  for  the  diamonds.  I 
shoved  them  quickly  into  the  satchel  and,  push- 

295 


In  the  Fog 

ing  them  far  down  to  the  bottom  of  the  bag, 
snapped  the  spring-lock.  Then  I  put  the  cigars 
in  the  pocket  of  my  coat,  but  with  the  thought 
that  now  that  I  had  a  woman  as  a  travelling  com- 
panion I  would  probably  not  be  allowed  to  enjoy 
them. 

"  One  of  her  pieces  of  luggage  had  fallen  at 
my  feet,  and  a  roll  of  rugs  had  landed  at  my 
side.  1  thought  if  I  hid  the  fact  that  the  lady 
was  not  welcome,  and  at  once  endeavored  to  be 
civil,  she  might  permit  me  to  smoke.  So  I 
picked  her  hand-bag  off  the  floor  and  asked  her 
where  I  might  place  it. 

"As  I  spoke  I  looked  at  her  for  the  first 
time,  and  saw  that  she  was  a  most  remarkably 
handsome  woman. 

"  She  smiled  charmingly  and  begged  me  not 
to  disturb  myself.  Then  she  arranged  her  own 
things  about  her,  and,  opening  her  dressing-bag, 
took  out  a  gold  cigarette-case. 

" c  Do  you  object  to  smoke  ? '  she  asked. 

cc  I  laughed  and  assured  her  I  had  been  in 
great  terror  lest  she  might  object  to  it  herself. 

" c  If  you  like  cigarettes/  she  said,  c  will  you 
try  some  of  these  ?  They  are  rolled  especially 
for  my  husband  in  Russia,  and  they  are  supposed 
to  be  very  good.' 

"  I  thanked  her,  and  took  one  from  her  case, 
296 


In  the  Fog 

and  I  found  it  so  much  better  than  my  own  that 
I  continued  to  smoke  her  cigarettes  throughout 
the  rest  of  the  journey.  I  must  say  that  we  got 
on  very  well.  I  judged  from  the  coronet  on  her 
cigarette-case,  and  from  her  manner,  which  was 
quite  as  well  bred  as  that  of  any  woman  J  ever 
met,  that  she  was  someone  of  importance,  and 
though  she  seemed  almost  too  good-looking  to 
be  respectable,  I  determined  that  she  was  some 
grande  dame  who  was  so  assured  of  her  position 
that  she  could  afford  to  be  unconventional.  At 
first  she  read  her  novel,  and  then  she  made  some 
comment  on  the  scenery,  and  finally  we  began  to 
discuss  the  current  politics  of  the  Continent. 
She  talked  of  all  the  cities  in  Europe,  and  seemed 
to  know  everyone  worth  knowing.  But  she 
volunteered  nothing  about  herself  except  that  she 
frequently  made  use  of  the  expression,  cWhen 
my  husband  was  stationed  at  Vienna,"  or  c  When 
my  husband  was  promoted  to  Rome."  Once 
she  said  to  me,  c  I  have  often  seen  you  at  Monte 
Carlo.  I  saw  you  when  you  won  the  pigeon- 
championship."  I  told  her  that  I  was  not  a 
pigeon-shot,  and  she  gave  a  little  start  of  sur- 
prise. c  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  said ;  *  I 
thought  you  were  Morton  Hamilton,  the  Eng- 
lish champion."  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  do  look 
Hamilton,  but  I  know  now  that  her  object 
297 


In  the  Fog 

was  :o  make  me  think  that  she  had  no  idea  as  to 
who  I  really  was.  She  needn't  have  acted  at 
all,  for  I  certainly  had  no  suspicions  of  her,  and 
was  only  too  pleased  to  have  so  charming  a  com- 
panion. 

"  The  one  thing  that  should  have  made  me 
suspicious  was  the  fact  that  at  every  station  she 
made  some  trivial  excuse  to  get  me  out  of  the 
compartment.  She  pretended  that  her  maid  was 
travelling  back  of  us  in  one  of  the  second-class 
carriages,  and  kept  saying  she  could  not  imagine 
why  the  woman  did  not  come  to  look  after  her, 
and  if  the  maid  did  not  turn  up  at  the  next  stop, 
would  I  be  so  very  kind  as  to  get  out  and  bring 
her  whatever  it  was  she  pretended  she  wanted. 

ec  I  had  taken  my  dressing-case  from  the  rack 
to  get  out  a  novel,  and  had  left  it  on  the  seat 
opposite  to  mine,  and  at  the  end  of  the  com- 
partment farthest  from  her.  And  once  when  I 
came  back  from  buying  her  a  cup  of  chocolate, 
or  from  some  other  fool-errand,  I  found  her 
standing  at  my  end  of  the  compartment  with 
both  hands  on  the  dressing-bag.  She  looked  at 
me  without  so  much  as  winking  an  eye,  and 
shoved  the  case  carefully  into  a  corner.  c  Your 
bag  slipped  off  on  the  floor/  she  said.  *  If 
you've  got  any  bottles  in  it,  you  had  better  look 
and  see  that  they're  not  broken.' 

298 


In  the  Fog 

cc  And  I  give  you  my  word,  I  was  such  an  ass 
that  I  did  open  the  case  and  looked  all  through  it, 
She  must  have  thought  I  was  a  Juggins.  I  get 
hot  all  over  whenever  I  remember  it.  But,  in 
spite  of  my  dulness,  and  her  cleverness,  she 
couldn't  gain  anything  by  sending  me  away,  be- 
cause what  she  wanted  was  in  the  hand-bag,  and 
every  time  she  sent  me  away  the  hand-bag  went 
with  me. 

"After  the  incident  of  the  dressing-case  her 
manner  changed.  Either  in  my  absence  she  had 
had  time  to  look  through  it,  or,  when  I  was  ex- 
amining it  for  broken  bottles,  she  had  seen  every- 
thing it  held. 

cc  From  that  moment  she  must  have  been 
certain  that  the  cigar-case,  in  which  she  knew  I 
carried  the  diamonds,  was  in  the  bag  that  was 
fastened  to  my  body,  and  from  that  time  on  she 
probably  was  plotting  how  to  get  it  from  me. 

"  Her  anxiety  became  most  apparent.  She 
dropped  the  great-lady  manner,  and  her  charming 
condescension  went  with  it.  She  ceased  talking, 
and,  when  I  spoke,  answered  me  irritably,  or  at 
random.  No  doubt  her  mind  was  entirely  occu- 
pied with  her  plan.  The  end  of  our  journey  was 
drawing  rapidly  nearer,  and  her  time  for  action 
was  being  cut  down  with  the  speed  of  the  express* 
train.  Even  I,  unsuspicious  as  I  was,  noticed 

299 


In  the  Fog 

that  something  was  very  wrong  with  her.  I  really 
believe  that  before  we  reached  Marseilles  if  I  had 
not,  through  my  own  stupidity,  given  her  the 
chance  she  wanted,  she  might  have  stuck  a  knife 
in  me  and  rolled  me  out  on  the  rails.  But  as  it 
was,  I  only  thought  that  the  long  journey  had 
tired  her.  I  suggested  that  it  was  a  very  trying 
trip,  and  asked  her  if  she  would  allow  me  to  offer 
her  some  of  my  cognac. 

"She  thanked  me  and  said,  c No/  and  then 
suddenly  her  eyes  lighted,  and  she  exclaimed, 
'Yes,  thank  you,  if  you  will  be  so  kind.' 

cc  My  flask  was  in  the  hand-bag,  and  I  placed 
it  on  my  lap  and,  with  my  thumb,  slipped  back 
the  catch.  As  I  keep  my  tickets  and  railroad- 
guide  in  the  bag,  I  am  so  constantly  opening  it 
that  I  never  bother  to  lock  it,  and  the  fact  that  it 
is  strapped  to  me  has  always  been  sufficient  pro- 
tection. But  I  can  appreciate  now  what  a  satis- 
faction, and  what  a  torment,  too,  it  must  have 
been  to  that  woman  when  she  saw  that  the  bag 
opened  without  a  key. 

"  While  we  were  crossing  the  mountains  I  had 
felt  rather  chilly  and  had  been  wearing  a  light 
racing-coat.  But  after  the  lamps  were  lighted 
the  compartment  became  very  hot  and  stuffy,  and 
I  found  the  coat  uncomfortable.  So  I  stood  up, 
and,  after  first  slipping  the  strap  of  the  bag  over 

300 


In  the  Fog 

my  head,  I  placed  the  bag  in  the  seat  next  me 
and  pulled  off  the  racing-coat.  I  don't  blame 
myself  for  being  careless  ;  the  bag  was  still  within 
reach  of  my  hand,  and  nothing  would  have  hap- 
pened if  at  that  exact  moment  the  train  had  not 
stopped  at  Aries.  It  was  the  combination  of  my 
removing  the  bag  and  our  entering  the  station  at 
the  same  instant  which  gave  the  Princess  Zichy 
the  chance  she  wanted  to  rob  me. 

cc  I  needn't  say  that  she  was  clever  enough  to 
take  it.  The  train  ran  into  the  station  at  full  speed 
and  came  to  a  sudden  stop.  I  had  just  thrown 
my  coat  into  the  rack,  and  had  reached  out  my 
hand  for  the  bag.  In  another  instant  I  would 
have  had  the  strap  around  my  shoulder.  But  at 
that  moment  the  Princess  threw  open  the  door  of 
the  compartment  and  beckoned  wildly  at  the  peo- 
ple on  the  platform.  c  Natalie  ! '  she  called, 

*  Natalie  !  here  I  am.     Come  here  !     This  way  !  * 
She  turned  upon  me  in  the  greatest  excitement. 

*  My  maid  ! '  she  cried.     c  She  is  looking  for  me. 
She  passed  the  window  without  seeing  me.     Go, 
please,  and  bring  her  back.'    She  continued  point- 
ing out  of  the  door  and  beckoning  me  with  her 
other   hand.      There    certainly    was    something 
about  that  woman's  tone  which  made  one  jump. 
When  she  was  giving  orders  you  had  no  chance 
to  think  of  anything  else.     So  I  rushed  out  on 


In  the  Fog 

my  errand  of  mercy,  and  then  rushed  back  again 
to  ask  what  the  maid  looked  like. 

cc  c  In  black,'  she  answered,  rising  and  blocking 
the  door  of  the  compartment.  c  All  in  black,  with 
a  bonnet ! ' 

"  The  train  waited  three  minutes  at  Aries,  and 
in  that  time  I  suppose  I  must  have  rushed  up  to 
over  twenty  women  and  asked, c  Are  you  Natalie?' 
The  only  reason  I  wasn't  punched  with  an  um- 
brella or  handed  over  to  the  police  was  that  they 
probably  thought  I  was  crazy. 

"  When  I  jumped  back  into  the  compartment 
the  Princess  was  seated  where  I  had  left  her,  but 
her  eyes  were  burning  with  happiness.  She  placed 
her  hand  on  my  arm  almost  affectionately,  and 
said,  in  a  hysterical  way,  c  You  are  very  kind  to 
me.  I  am  so  sorry  to  have  troubled  you.' 

"  I  protested  that  every  woman  on  the  platform 
was  dressed  in  black. 

"'Indeed,  I  am  so  sorry,'  she  said,  laughing;  and 
she  continued  to  laugh  until  she  began  to  breathe 
so  quickly  that  I  thought  she  was  going  to 
faint. 

cc  I  can  see  now  that  the  last  part  of  that  jour- 
ney must  have  been  a  terrible  half-hour  for  her. 
She  had  the  cigar-case  safe  enough,  but  she  knew 
that  she  herself  was  not  safe.  She  understood 
if  I  were  to  open  my  bag,  even  at  the  last  min* 

302 


In  the  Fog 

ute,  and  miss  the  case,  I  would  know  positively 
that  she  had  taken  it.  I  had  placed  the  diamonds 
in  the  bag  at  the  very  moment  she  entered  the 
compartment,  and  no  one  but  our  two  selves  had 
occupied  it  since.  She  knew  that  when  we  reached 
Marseilles  she  would  either  be  twenty  thousand 
pounds  richer  than  when  she  left  Paris,  or  that 
she  would  go  to  jail.  That  was  the  situation  as 
she  must  have  read  it,  and  I  don't  envy  her  her 
state  of  mind  during  that  last  half-hour.  It  must 
have  been  hell. 

"  I  saw  that  something  was  wrong,  and,  in  my 
innocence,  I  even  wondered  if  possibly  my  cognac 
had  not  been  a  little  too  strong.  For  she  suddenly 
developed  into  a  most  brilliant  conversationalist, 
and  applauded  and  laughed  at  everything  I  said, 
and  fired  off  questions  at  me  like  a  machine-gun, 
so  that  I  had  no  time  to  think  of  anything  but  o/ 
what  she  was  saying.  Whenever  I  stirred,  she 
stopped  her  chattering  and  leaned  toward  me,  and 
watched  me  like  a  cat  over  a  mouse-hole.  I 
wondered  how  I  could  have  considered  her  an 
agreeable  travelling-companion.  I  thought  I 
would  have  preferred  to  be  locked  in  with  a  lunatic. 
I  don't  like  to  think  how  she  would  have  acted  if 
I  had  made  a  move  to  examine  the  bag,  but  as  I 
had  it  safely  strapped  around  me  again,  I  did  not 
open  it,  and  I  reached  Marseilles  alive.  As  we 

3°3 


In   the  Fog 

drew  into  the  station  she  shook  hands  with  me 
and  grinned  at  me  like  a  Cheshire  cat. 

" c  I  cannot  tell  you/  she  said,  c  how  much  1 
have  to  thank  you  for.'  What  do  you  think  of 
that  for  impudence? 

cc  I  offered  to  put  her  in  a  carriage,  but  she  said 
she  must  find  Natalie,  and  that  she  hoped  we 
would  meet  again  at  the  hotel.  So  I  drove  off 
by  myself,  wondering  who  she  was,  and  whether 
Natalie  was  not  her  keeper. 

cc  I  had  to  wait  several  hours  for  the  train  to 
Nice,  and  as  I  wanted  to  stroll  around  the  city  I 
thought  I  had  better  put  the  diamonds  in  the  safe 
of  the  hotel.  As  soon  as  I  reached  my  room  I 
locked  the  door,  placed  the  hand-bag  on  the  table, 
and  opened  it.  I  felt  among  the  things  at  the  top 
of  it,  but  failed  to  touch  the  cigar-case.  I  shoved 
my  hand  in  deeper,  and  stirred  the  things  about, 
but  still  I  did  not  reach  it.  A  cold  wave  swept 
down  my  spine,  and  a  sort  of  emptiness  came  to 
the  pit  of  my  stomach.  Then  I  turned  red-hot, 
and  the  sweat  sprung  out  all  over  me.  I  wet  my 
lips  with  my  tongue,  and  said  to  myself,  c  Don't 
be  an  ass.  Pull  yourself  together,  pull  yourself 
together.  Take  the  things  out,  one  at  a  time. 
It's  there,  of  course,  it's  there.  Don't  be  an  ass.' 

"So  I  put  a  brake  on  my  nerves  and  began 
very  carefully  to  pick  out  the  things,  one  by  one, 

304 


In  the  Fog 

but,  after  another  second,  I  could  not  stand  it,  and 
I  rushed  across  the  room  and  threw  out  every- 
thing on  the  bed.  But  the  diamonds  were  not 
among  them.  I  pulled  the  things  about  and  tore 
them  open  and  shuffled  and  rearranged  and  sorted 
them,  but  it  was  no  use.  The  cigar-case  was  gone. 
I  threw  everything  in  the  dressing-case  out  on  the 
floor,  although  I  knew  it  was  useless  to  look  for 
it  there.  I  knew  that  I  had  put  it  in  the  bag.  I 
sat  down  and  tried  to  think.  I  remembered  I  had 
put  it  in  the  satchel  at  Paris  just  as  that  woman 
had  entered  the  compartment,  and  I  had  been 
alone  with  her  ever  since,  so  it  was  she  who  had 
robbed  me.  But  how?  It  had  never  left  my 
shoulder.  And  then  I  remembered  that  it  had — 
that  I  had  taken  it  off  when  I  had  changed  my 
coat  and  for  the  few  moments  that  I  was  search- 
ing for  Natalie.  I  remembered  that  the  woman 
had  sent  me  on  that  goose-chase,  and  that  at  every 
other  station  she  had  tried  to  get  rid  of  me  on 
some  fool-errand. 

"  I  gave  a  roar  like  a  mad  bull,  and  I  jumped 
down  the  stairs,  six  steps  at  a  time. 

cc  I  demanded  at  the  office  if  a  distinguished 
lady  of  title,  possibly  a  Russian,  had  just  entered 
the  hotel. 

"As  I  expected,  she  had  not.  I  sprang  into 
a  cab  and  inquired  at  two  other  hotels,  and  then 

305 


In  the  Fog 

I  saw  the  folly  of  trying  to  catch  her  without  out- 
side help,  and  I  ordered  the  fellow  to  gallop  to 
the  office  of  the  Chief  of  Police.  I  told  my  story, 
and  the  ass  in  charge  asked  me  to  calm  myself^ 
and  wanted  to  take  notes.  I  told  him  this  was 
no  time  for  taking  notes,  but  for  doing  some- 
thing. He  got  wrathy  at  that,  and  I  demanded 
to  be  taken  at  once  to  his  Chief.  The  Chief,  he 
said,  was  very  busy,  and  could  not  see  me.  So  I 
showed  him  my  silver  greyhound.  In  eleven 
years  I  had  never  used  it  but  once  before.  I 
stated,  in  pretty  vigorous  language,  that  I  was  a 
Queen's  Messenger,  and  that  if  the  Chief  of 
Police  did  not  see  me  instantly  he  would  lose  his 
official  head.  At  that  the  fellow  jumped  off  his 
high  horse  and  ran  with  me  to  his  Chief — a 
smart  young  chap,  a  colonel  in  the  army,  and  a 
very  intelligent  man. 

"  I  explained  that  I  had  been  robbed,  in  a 
French  railway-carriage,  of  a  diamond-necklace 
belonging  to  the  Queen  of  England,  which  her 
Majesty  was  sending  as  a  present  to  the  Czarina 
of  Russia.  I  pointed  out  to  him  that  if  he  suc- 
ceeded in  capturing  the  thief  he  would  be  made 
for  life,  and  would  receive  the  gratitude  of  three 
great  powers. 

"  He  wasn't  the  sort  that  thinks  second 
thoughts  are  nest.  He  saw  Russian  and  French 

306 


In  the  Fog 

decorations  sprouting  all  over  his  chest,  and  he 
hit  a  bell,  and  pressed  buttons,  and  yelled  out 
orders  like  the  captain  of  a  penny-steamer  in  a 
fog.  He  sent  her  description  to  all  the  city-gates, 
and  ordered  all  cabmen  and  railway-porters  to 
search  all  trains  leaving  Marseilles.  He  ordered 
all  passengers  on  outgoing  vessels  to  be  examined, 
and  telegraphed  the  proprietors  of  every  hotel 
and  pension  to  send  him  a  complete  list  of  their 
guests  within  the  hour.  While  I  was  standing 
there  he  must  have  given  at  least  a  hundred 
orders,  and  sent  out  enough  commissaires,  ser- 
geants de  ville,  gendarmes,  bicycle-police,  and 
plain-clothes  Johnnies  to  have  captured  the  entire 
German  army.  When  they  had  gone  he  assured 
me  that  the  woman  was  as  good  as  arrested 
already.  Indeed,  officially,  she  was  arrested;  for 
she  had  no  more  chance  of  escape  from  Marseilles 
than  from  the  Chateau  D'If. 

"  He  told  me  to  return  to  my  hotel  and  pos- 
sess my  soul  in  peace.  Within  an  hour  he  as- 
sured me  he  would  acquaint  me  with  her  arrest. 

"  I  thanked  him,  and  complimented  him  on 
his  energy,  and  left  him.  But  I  didn't  share  in 
his  confidence.  I  felt  that  she  was  a  very  clever 
woman,  and  a  match  for  any  and  all  of  us.  It 
was  all  very  well  for  him  to  be  jubilant.  He  had 
not  lost  the  diamonds,  and  had  everything  to 

3°7 


In  the  Fog 

gain  if  he  found  them  j  while  I,  even  if  he  did 
recover  the  necklace,  would  only  be  where  I  was 
before  I  lost  them,  and  if  he  did  not  recover  it  I 
was  a  ruined  man.  It  was  an  awful  facer  for  me. 
I  had  always  prided  myself  on  my  record.  In 
eleven  years  I  had  never  mislaid  an  envelope,  nor 
missed  taking  the  first  train.  And  now  I  had 
failed  in  the  most  important  mission  that  had 
ever  been  intrusted  to  me.  And  it  wasn't  a  thing 
that  could  be  hushed  up,  either.  It  was  too  con- 
spicuous, too  spectacular.  It  was  sure  to  invite 
the  widest  notoriety.  I  saw  myself  ridiculed  all 
over  the  Continent,  and  perhaps  dismissed,  even 
suspected  of  having  taken  the  thing  myself. 

"  I  was  walking  in  front  of  a  lighted  cafe,  and 
I  felt  so  sick  and  miserable  that  I  stopped  for  a 
pick-me-up.  Then  I  considered  that  if  I  took 
one  drink  I  would  probably,  in  my  present  state 
of  mind,  not  want  to  stop  under  twenty,  and  I 
decided  I  had  better  leave  it  alone.  But  my 
nerves  were  jumping  like  a  frightened  rabbit,  and 
I  felt  I  must  have  something  to  quiet  them,  or  I 
would  go  crazy.  I  reached  for  my  cigarette-case, 
but  a  cigarette  seemed  hardly  adequate,  so  I  put 
it  back  again  and  took  out  this  cigar-case,  in 
which  I  keep  only  the  strongest  and  blackest 
cigars.  I  opened  it  and  stuck  in  my  fingers,  but, 
instead  of  a  cigar,  they  touched  on  a  thin  leather 

308 


In  the  Fog 

envelope.  My  heart  stood  perfectly  still.  I  did 
not  dare  to  look,  but  I  dug  my  finger-nails  into 
the  leather,  and  I  felt  layers  of  thin  paper,  then  a 
layer  of  cotton,  and  then  they  scratched  on  the 
facets  of  the  Czarina's  diamonds ! 

"  I  stumbled  as  though  I  had  been  hit  in  the 
face,  and  fell  back  into  one  of  the  chairs  on  the 
sidewalk.  I  tore  off  the  wrappings  and  spread 
out  the  diamonds  on  the  cafe-table ;  I  could  not 
believe  they  were  real.  I  twisted  the  necklace 
between  my  fingers  and  crushed  it  between  my 
palms  and  tossed  it  up  in  the  air.  I  believe  I 
almost  kissed  it.  The  women  in  the  cafe  stood 
up  on  the  chairs  to  see  better,  and  laughed  and 
screamed,  and  the  people  crowded  so  close  around 
me  that  the  waiters  had  to  form  a  body-guard. 
The  proprietor  thought  there  was  a  fight,  and 
called  for  the  police.  I  was  so  happy  I  didn't 
care.  I  laughed,  too,  and  gave  the  proprietor  a 
five-pound  note,  and  told  him  to  stand  everyone 
a  drink.  Then  I  tumbled  into  a  fiacre  and  gal- 
loped off  to  my  friend  the  Chief  of  Police.  I  felt 
very  sorry  for  him.  He  had  been  so  happy  at  the 
chance  I  gave  him,  and  he  was  sure  to  be  disap- 
pointed when  he  learned  I  had  sent  him  off  on 
a  false  alarm. 

"  But  now  that  I  had  found  the  necklace,  I  did 
not  want  him  to  find  the  woman.  Indeed,  I  was 

309 


In  the  Fog 

most  anxious  that  she  should  get  clear  away,  for, 
if  she  were  caught,  the  truth  would  come  out,  and 
I  was  likely  to  get  a  sharp  reprimand,  and  sure  to 
be  laughed  at. 

"  I  could  see  now  how  it  had  happened.  In 
my  haste  to  hide  the  diamonds  when  the  woman 
was  hustled  into  the  carriage,  I  had  shoved  the 
cigars  into  the  satchel,  and  the  diamonds  into 
the  pocket  of  my  coat.  Now  that  I  had  the 
diamonds  safe  again,  it  seemed  a  very  natural 
mistake.  But  I  doubted  if  the  Foreign  Office 
would  think  so.  I  was  afraid  it  might  not 
appreciate  the  beautiful  simplicity  of  my  secret 
hiding-place.  So,  when  I  reached  the  police- 
station,  and  found  that  the  woman  was  still  at 
large,  I  was  more  than  relieved. 

"  As  I  expected,  the  Chief  was  extremely  cha- 
grined when  he  learned  of  my  mistake,  and  that 
there  was  nothing  for  him  to  do.  But  I  was  feel- 
ing so  happy  myself  that  I  hated  to  have  anyone 
else  miserable,  so  I  suggested  that  this  attempt  to 
steal  the  Czarina's  necklace  might  be  only  the  first 
of  a  series  of  such  attempts  by  an  unscrupulous 
gang,  and  that  I  might  still  be  in  danger. 

"  I  winked  at  the  Chief,  and  the  Chief  smiled 
at  me,  and  we  went  to  Nice  together  in  a  saloon- 
car  with  a  guard  of  twelve  carabineers  and  twelve 
plain-clothes  men,  and  the  Chief  and  I  drank 

310 


In  the  Fog 

champagne  all  the  way.  We  marched  together 
up  to  the  hotel  where  the  Russian  Ambassador 
was  stopping,  closely  surrounded  by  our  escort  of 
carabineers,  and  delivered  the  necklace  with  the 
most  profound  ceremony.  The  old  Ambassador 
was  immensely  impressed,  and  when  we  hinted 
that  already  I  had  been  made  the  object  of  an 
attack  by  robbers,  he  assured  us  that  his  Imperial 
Majesty  would  not  prove  ungrateful. 

"  I  wrote  a  swinging  personal  letter  about  the 
Invaluable  services  of  the  Chief  to  the  French 
Minister  of  Foreign  Affairs,  and  they  gave  him 
enough  Russian  and  French  medals  to  satisfy 
even  a  French  soldier.  So,  though  he  never 
caught  the  woman,  he  received  his  just  reward." 

The  Queen's  Messenger  paused  and  surveyed 
the  faces  of  those  about  him  in  some  embarrass- 
ment, 

"  But  the  worst  of  it  is,"  he  added,  "  that  the 
story  must  have  got  about ;  for,  while  the  Princess 
obtained  nothing  from  me  but  a  cigar-case  and 
five  excellent  cigars,  a  few  weeks  after  the  corona- 
tion the  Czar  sent  me  a  gold  cigar-case  with  his 
monogram  in  diamonds.  And  I  don't  know  yet 
whether  that  was  a  coincidence,  or  whether  the 
Czar  wanted  me  to  know  that  he  knew  that  I  had 
been  carrying  the  Czarina's  diamonds  in  my  pig- 
skin cigar-case.  What  do  you  fellows  think  ?  " 


Ill 

SIR  ANDREW  rose,  with  disapproval  written  in 
every  lineament. 

"I  thought  your  story  would  bear  upon  the 
murder,"  he  said.  "Had  I  imagined  it  would 
have  nothing  whatsoever  to  do  with  it,  I  would 
not  have  remained."  He  pushed  back  his  chair 
and  bowed,  stiffly.  "  I  wish  you  good  night,"  he 
said. 

There  was  a  chorus  of  remonstrance,  and,  under 
cover  of  this  and  the  Baronet's  answering  protests, 
a  servant,  for  the  second  time,  slipped  a  piece  of 
paper  into  the  hand  of  the  gentleman  with  the 
pearl  stud.  He  read  the  lines  written  upon  it 
and  tore  it  into  tiny  fragments. 

The  youngest  member,  who  had  remained  an 
interested  but  silent  listener  to  the  tale  of  the 
Queen's  Messenger,  raised  his  hand,  command- 
ingly. 

u  Sir  Andrew,"  he  cried,  "  in  justice  to  Lord 
Arthur  Chetney,  I  must  ask  you  to  be  seated. 
He  has  been  accused  in  our  hearing  of  a  most 
serious  crime,  and  I  insist  that  you  remain  untit 
you  have  heard  me  clear  his  character." 

312 


In  the  Fog 

"  You  !  "  cried  the  Baronet. 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  young  man,  briskly.  "  1 
#ould  have  spoken  sooner,"  he  explained,  "  but 
that  I  thought  this  gentleman  "  —he  inclined  his 
head  toward  the  Queen's  Messenger — "  was  about 
to  contribute  some  facts  of  which  I  was  ignorant. 
He,  however,  has  told  us  nothing,  and  so  1  will 
take  up  the  tale  at  the  point  where  Lieutenant 
Sears  laid  it  down  and  give  you  those  details  of 
which  Lieutenant  Sears  is  ignorant.  It  seems 
strange  to  you  that  I  should  be  able  to  add  the 
sequel  to  this  story.  But  the  coincidence  is  easily 
explained.  I  am  the  junior  member  of  the  law 
firm  of  Chudleigh  &  Chudleigh.  We  have  been 
solicitors  for  the  Chetneys  for  the  last  two  hun- 
dred years.  Nothing,  no  matter  now  unim- 
portant, which  concerns  Lord  Edam  and  his  two 
sons  is  unknown  to  us,  and  naturally  we  are  ac- 
quainted with  every  detail  of  the  terrible  catas- 
trophe of  last  night." 

The  Baronet,  bewildered  but  eager,  sank  back 
into  his  chair. 

c-  Will  you  be  long,  sir  ? "  he  demanded. 

cc  I  shall  endeavor  to  be  brief,"  said  the  young 
solicitor ;  "  and,"  he  added,  in  a  tone  which  gave 
his  words  almost  the  weight  of  a  threat, "  I  prom- 
ise to  be  interesting." 

"  There  is  no  need  to  promise  that,"  said  Si* 
313 


In  the  Fog 

Andrew,  "  I  find  it  much  too  interesting  as  it  is." 
He  glanced  ruefully  at  the  clock  and  turned  his 
eyes  quickly  from  it. 

"  Tell  the  driver  of  that  hansom,"  he  called  to 
the  servant,  cc  that  I  take  him  by  the  hour." 

"  For  the  last  three  days,"  began  young  Mr. 
Chudleigh,  "  ds  you  have  probably  read  in  the 
daily  papers,  the  Marquis  of  Edam  has  been  at 
the  point  of  death,  and  his  physicians  have  never 
left  his  house.  Every  hour  he  seemed  to  grow 
weaker;  but  although  his  bodily  strength  is  ap- 
parently leaving  him  forever,  his  mind  has  re- 
mained clear  and  active.  Late  yesterday  evening, 
word  was  received  at  our  office  that  he  wished  my 
father  to  come  at  once  to  Chetney  House  and  to 
bring  with  him  certain  papers.  What  these  papers 
were  is  not  essential ;  I  mention  them  only  to  ex- 
plain how  it  was  that  last  night  I  happened  to  be 
at  Lord  Edam's  bedside.  I  accompanied  my 
father  to  Chetney  House,  but  at  the  time  we 
reached  there  Lord  Edam  was  sleeping,  and  his 
physicians  refused  to  have  him  awakened.  My 
father  urged  that  he  should  be  allowed  to  receive 
Lord  Edam's  instructions  concerning  the  docu- 
ments, but  the  physicians  would  not  disturb  him, 
and  we  all  gathered  in  the  library  to  wait  until  he 
should  awake  of  his  own  accord.  It  was  about 
one  o'clock  in  the  morning,  while  we  were  still 

3U 


In  the  Fog 

there,  that  Inspector  Lyle  and  the  officers  from 
Scotland  Yard  came  to  arrest  Lord  Arthur  on  the 
charge  of  murdering  his  brother.  You  can  imagine 
our  dismay  and  distress.  Like  everyone  else,  I 
had  learned  from  the  afternoon  papers  that  Lord 
Chetney  was  not  dead,  but  that  he  had  returned 
to  England,  and,  on  arriving  at  Chetney  House,  I 
had  been  told  that  Lord  Arthur  had  gone  to  the 
Bath  Hotel  to  look  for  his  brother  and  to  inform 
him  that  if  he  wished  to  see  their  father  alive  he 
must  come  to  him  at  once.  Although  it  was  now 
past  one  o'clock,  Arthur  had  not  returned.  None 
of  us  knew  where  Madame  Zichy  lived,  so  we 
could  not  go  to  recover  Lord  Chetney 's  body. 
We  spent  a  most  miserable  night,  hastening  to 
the  window  whenever  a  cab  came  into  the  square, 
in  the  hope  that  it  was  Arthur  returning,  and  en- 
deavoring to  explain  away  the  facts  that  pointed 
to  him  as  the  murderer.  I  am  a  friend  of  Ar- 
thur's, I  was  with  him  at  Harrow  and  at  Oxford, 
and  I  refused  to  believe  for  an  instant  that  he 
was  capable  of  such  a  crime ;  but  as  a  lawyer  I 
could  not  help  but  see  that  the  circumstantial 
evidence  was  strongly  against  him. 

"  Toward  early  morning,  Lord  Edam  awoke, 
and  in  so  much  better  a  state  of  health  that  he 
refused  to  make  the  changes  in  the  papers  which 
he  had  intended,  declaring  that  he  was  no  nearer 

315 


In  the  Fog 

death  than  ourselves.  Under  other  circum- 
stances, this  happy  change  in  him  would  have 
relieved  us  greatly,  but  none  of  us  could  think  of 
anything  save  the  death  of  his  elder  son  and  of 
the  charge  which  hung  over  Arthur. 

"As  long  as  Inspector  Lyle  remained  in  the 
house,  my  father  decided  that  I,  as  one  of  the 
legal  advisers  of  the  family,  should  also  remain 
there.  But  there  was  little  for  either  of  us  to  do. 
Arthur  did  not  return,  and  nothing  occurred  until 
late  this  morning,  when  Lyle  received  word  that 
the  Russian  servant  had  been  arrested.  He  at 
once  drove  to  Scotland  Yard  to  question  him. 
He  came  back  to  us  in  an  hour,  and  informed 
me  that  the  servant  had  refused  to  tell  anything 
of  what  had  happened  the  night  before,  or  of  him- 
self, or  of  the  Princess  Zichy.  He  would  not 
even  give  them  the  address  of  her  house. 

" c  He  is  in  abject  terror,'  Lyle  said.  c  I  as- 
sured him  that  he  was  not  suspected  of  the  crime,, 
but  he  would  tell  me  nothing/ 

"  There  were  no  other  developments  until  two 
o'clock  this  afternoon,  when  word  was  brought  to 
us  that  Arthur  had  been  found,  and  that  he  was 
lying  in  the  accident- ward  of  St.  George's  Hos- 
pital. Lyle  and  I  drove  there  together,  and 
found  him  propped  up  in  bed  with  his  head  bound 
in  a  bandage.  He  had  been  brought  to  the  hos- 


In  the  Fog 

pital  the  night  before  by  the  driver  of  a  hansom 
that  had  run  over  him  in  the  fog.  The  cab- 
horse  had  kicked  him  on  the  head,  and  he  had 
been  carried  in  unconscious.  There  was  nothing 
on  him  to  tell  who  he  was,  and  it  was  not  until 
he  came  to  his  senses  this  afternoon  that  the  hos- 
pital authorities  had  been  able  to  send  word  to 
his  people.  Lyle  at  once  informed  him  that  he 
was  under  arrest,  and  with  what  he  was  charged, 
and  though  the  Inspector  warned  him  to  say 
nothing  which  might  be  used  against  him,  I,  as 
his  solicitor,  instructed  him  to  speak  freely  and 
to  tell  us  all  he  knew  of  the  occurrences  of  last 
night.  It  was  evident  to  anyone  that  the  fact 
of  his  brothers  death  was  of  much  greater  con- 
cern to  him  than  that  he  was  accused  of  his 
murder. 

cc  c  That/  Arthur  said,  contemptuously,  c  that  is 
damned  nonsense.  It  is  monstrous  and  cruel. 
We  parted  better  friends  than  we  have  been  in 
years.  I  will  tell  you  all  that  happened — not  to 
clear  myself,  but  to  help  you  to  find  out  the 
truth/  His  story  is  as  follows  :  Yesterday  after- 
noon, owing  to  his  constant  attendance  on  his 
father,  he  did  not  look  at  the  evening  papers,  and 
it  was  not  until  after  dinner,  when  the  butler 
brought  him  one  and  told  him  of  its  contents, 
that  he  learned  that  his  brother  was  alive  and  at 


In  the  Fog 

the  Bath  Hotel.  He  drove  there  at  once,  but 
was  told  that  about  eight  o'clock  his  brother  had 
gone  out,  but  without  giving  any  clew  to  his 
destination.  As  Chetney  had  not  at  once  come 
to  see  his  father,  Arthur  decided  that  he  was  still 
angry  with  him,  and  his  mind,  turning  naturally 
to  the  cause  of  their  quarrel,  determined  him  to 
look  for  Chetney  at  the  home  of  the  Princess 
Zichy. 

"Her  house  had  been  pointed  out  to  him,  and 
though  he  had  never  visited  it,  he  had  passed  it 
many  times  and  knew  its  exact  location.  He 
accordingly  drove  in  that  direction,  as  far  as  the 
fog  would  permit  the  hansom  to  go,  and  walked 
the  rest  of  the  way,  reaching  the  house  about  nine 
o'clock.  He  rang,  and  was  admitted  by  the  Rus- 
sian servant.  The  man  took  his  card  into  the 
drawing-room,  and  at  once  his  brother  ran  out 
and  welcomed  him.  He  was  followed  by  the 
Princess  Zichy,  who  also  received  Arthur  most 
cordially. 

cc  c  You  brothers  will  have  much  to  talk  about, 
she  said.  c  I  am  going  to  the  dining-room. 
When  you  have  finished,  let  me  know/ 

"As  soon  as  she  had  left  them,  Arthur  told 
his  brother  that  their  father  was  not  expected  to 
outlive  the  night,  and  that  he  must  come  to  him 
at  once. 

318 


In  the  Fog 

" c  This  is  not  the  moment  to  remember  youf 
quarrel/  Arthur  said  to  him ;  f  you  have  come 
back  from  the  dead  only  in  time  to  make  your 
peace  with  him  before  he  dies.' 

"  Arthur  says  that  at  this  Chetney  was  greatly 
moved. 

" c  You  entirely  misunderstand  me,  Arthur/ 
he  returned.  c  I  did  not  know  the  governor  was 
ill,  or  I  would  have  gone  to  him  the  instant  I  ar- 
rived. My  only  reason  for  not  doing  so  was  be- 
cause I  thought  he  was  still  angry  with  me.  I 
shall  return  with  you  immediately,  as  soon  as  I 
have  said  good-by  to  the  Princess.  It  is  a  final 
good-by.  After  to-night  I  shall  never  see  her 
again.' 

"  c  Do  you  mean  that  ? '  Arthur  cried. 

"  c  Yes/  Chetney  answered.  c  When  I  returned 
to  London  I  had  no  intention  of  seeking  her 
again,  and  I  am  here  only  through  a  mistake.' 
He  then  told  Arthur  that  he  had  separated  from 
the  Princess  even  before  he  went  to  Central  Afri- 
ca, and  that,  moreover,  while  at  Cairo  on  his  way 
south,  he  had  learned  certain  facts  concerning  her 
life  there  during  t^e  previous  season,  which  made 
it  impossible  for  him  to  ever  wish  to  see  her 
again.  Their  separation  was  final  and  complete. 

" c  She  deceived  me  cruelly/  he  said  ;  c  I  can- 
not tell  you  how  cruelly.  During  the  two  years 


In  the  Fog 

when  I  was  trying  to  obtain  my  father's  consent 
to  our  marriage  she  was  in  love  with  a  Russian 
diplomat.  During  all  that  time  he  was  secretly 
visiting  her  here  in  London,  and  her  trip  to  Cairo 
was  only  an  excuse  to  meet  him  there/ 

"  c  Yet  you  are  here  with  her  to-night/  Arthur 
protested,  c  only  a  few  hours  after  your  return/ 

"  <  That  is  easily  explained/  Chetney  answered. 
*  As  I  finished  dinner  to-night  at  the  hotel,  I  re- 
ceived a  note  from  her  from  this  address.  In  it 
she  said  she  had  just  learned  of  my  arrival,  and 
begged  me  to  come  to  her  at  once.  She  wrote 
that  she  was  in  great  and  present  trouble,  dying 
of  an  incurable  illness,  and  without  friends  or 
money.  She  begged  me,  for  the  sake  of  old 
times,  to  come  to  her  assistance.  During  the 
last  two  years  in  the  jungle  all  my  former  feeling 
for  Zichy  has  utterly  passed  away,  but  no  one 
could  have  dismissed  the  appeal  she  made  in  that 
letter.  So  I  came  here,  and  found  her,  as  you 
have  seen  her,  quite  as  beautiful  as  she  ever  was, 
in  very  good  health,  and,  from  the  look  of  the 
house,  in  no  need  of  money. 

"  c  I  asked  her  what  she  meant  by  writing  me 
that  she  was  dying  in  a  garret,  and  she  laughed, 
and  said  she  had  done  so  because  she  was  afraid, 
unless  I  thought  she  needed  help,  I  would  not 
try  to  see  her.  That  was  where  we  were  when 

320 


In  the  Fog 

you  arrived.  And  now/  Chetney  added,  c  I  will 
say  good-by  to  her,  and  you  had  better  return 
home.  No,  you  can  trust  me,  I  shall  follow  you 
at  once.  She  has  no  influence  over  me  now,  but 
I  believe,  in  spite  of  the  way  she  has  used  me, 
that  she  is,  after  her  queer  fashion,  still  fond  of 
me,  and  when  she  learns  that  this  good-by  is  final 
there  may  be  a  scene,  and  it  is  not  fair  to  her 
that  you  should  be  here.  So,  go  home  at  once, 
and  tell  the  governor  that  I  am  following  you  in 
ten  minutes.' 

" £  That/  said  Arthur,  c  is  the  way  we  parted. 
I  never  left  him  on  more  friendly  terms.  I  was 
happy  to  see  him  alive  again,  I  was  happy  to 
think  he  had  returned  in  time  to  make  up  his 
quarrel  with  my  father,  and  I  was  happy  that  at 
last  he  was  shut  of  that  woman.  I  was  never 
better  pleased  with  him  in  my  life.'  He  turned 
to  Inspector  Lyle,  who  was  sitting  at  the  foot  of 
the  bed,  taking  notes  of  all  he  told  us. 

" c  Why,  in  the  name  of  common-sense/  he 
cried,  c  should  I  have  chosen  that  -moment,  of  all 
others,  to  send  my  brother  back  to  the  grave  ? ' 
For  a  moment  the  Inspector  did  not  answer  him. 
I  do  not  know  if  any  of  you  gentlemen  are  ac- 
quainted with  Inspector  Lyle,  but  if  you  are  not, 
I  can  assure  you  that  he  is  a  very  remarkable 
man.  Our  firm  often  applies  to  him  for  aid,  and 

321 


In  the  Fog 

he  has  never  failed  us  ;  my  father  has  the  greatest 
possible  respect  for  him.  Where  he  has  the  ad- 
vantage over  the  ordinary  police-official  is  in  the 
fact  that  he  possesses  imagination.  He  imagines 
himself  to  be  the  criminal,  imagines  how  he  would 
act  under  the  same  circumstances,  and  he  imagines 
to  such  purpose  that  he  generally  finds  the  man 
he  wants.  I  have  often  told  Lyle  that  if  he  had 
not  been  a  detective  he  would  have  made  a  great 
success  as  a  poet  or  a  playwright. 

"  When  Arthur  turned  on  him,  Lyle  hesitated 
for  a  moment,  and  then  told  him  exactly  what 
was  the  case  against  him. 

" c  Ever  since  your  brother  was  reported  as 
having  died  m  Africa/  he  said,  'your  lordship 
has  been  collecting  money  on  post-obits.  Lord 
Chetney's  arrival,  last  night,  turned  them  into 
waste-paper.  You  were  suddenly  in  debt  for 
thousands  of  pounds — for  much  more  than  you 
could  ever  possibly  pay.  No  one  knew  that  you 
and  your  brother  had  met  at  Madame  Zichy's. 
But  you  knew  that  your  father  was  not  expected 
to  outlive  the  night,  and  that  if  your  brother  were 
dead  also,  you  would  be  saved  from  complete 
ruin,  and  that  you  would  become  the  Marquis  of 
Edam.' 

cc  c  Oh,  that  is  how  you  have  worked  it  out,  is 
it  ? '  Arthur  cried.  c  And  for  me  to  become  Lord 

322 


In  the  Fog 


Edam  was  it  necessary  that  the  woman  should  dies 
too?' 

" c  They  will  say/  Lyle  answered,  c  that  she 
was  a  witness  to  the  murder — that  she  would  have 
told/ 

" c  Then  why  did  I  not  kill  the  servant  as 
well  ?  '  Arthur  said. 

" c  He  was  asleep,  and  saw  nothing/ 

"  c  And  you  believe  that  ?  '  Arthur  demanded. 

"  '  It  is  not  a  question  of  what  I  believe/  Lyle 
said,  gravely.  c  It  is  a  question  for  your  peers/ 

" c  The  man  is  insolent ! '  Arthur  cried.  c  The 
*hing  is  monstrous  !  Horrible  ! ' 

"  Before  we  could  stop  him,  he  sprang  out  of 
his  cot  and  began  pulling  on  his  clothes.  When 
the  nurses  tried  to  hold  him  down,  he  fought 
with  them. 

" c  Do  you  think  you  can  keep  me  here/  he 
shouted,  c  when  they  are  plotting  to  hang  me  ?  I 
am  going  with  you  to  that  house  ! '  he  cried  at 
Lyle.  c  When  you  find  those  bodies  I  shall  be 
beside  you.  It  is  my  right.  He  is  my  brother. 
He  has  been  murdered,  and  I  can  tell  you  who 
murdered  him.  That  woman  murdered  him. 
She  first  ruined  his  life,  and  now  she  has  killed 
him.  For  the  last  five  years  she  has  been  plot- 
ting to  make  herself  his  wife,  and  last  night,  when 
he  told  her  he  had  discovered  the  truth  about  the 

323 


In  the  Fog 

Russian,  and  that  she  would  never  see  him  again, 
she  flew  into  a  passion  and  stabbed  him,  and  thens 
in  terror  of  the  gallows,  killed  herself.  She 
murdered  him,  I  tell  you,  and  I  promise  you  that 
we  will  find  the  knife  she  used  near  her — per- 
haps still  in  her  hand.  What  will  you  say  to 
that?' 

"  Lyle  turned  his  head  away  and  stared  down 
at  the  floor.  c  I  might  say/  he  answered,  c  that 
you  placed  it  there/ 

"Arthur  gave  a  cry  of  anger  and  sprang  at 
him,  and  then  pitched  forward  into  his  arms. 
The  blood  was  running  from  the  cut  under  the 
bandage,  and  he  had  fainted.  Lyle  carried  him 
back  to  the  bed  again,  and  we  left  him  with  the 
police  and  the  doctors,  and  drove  at  once  to  the 
address  he  had  given  us.  .We  found  the  house  not 
three  minutes*  walk  from  St.  George's  Hospital. 
It  stands  in  Trevor  Terrace,  that  little  row  of 
houses  set  back  from  Knightsbridge,  with  one 
end  in  Hill  Street. 

"As  we  left  the  hospital,  Lyle  had  said  to 
me,  cYou  must  not  blame  me  for  treating  him  as 
I  did.  All  is  fair  in  this  work,  and  if  by  anger- 
ing that  boy  I  could  have  made  him  commit  him- 
self, I  was  right  in  trying  to  do  so ;  though,  I  as- 
sure you,  no  one  would  be  better  pleased  than 
myself  if  I  could  prove  his  theory  to  be  correct. 

324 


In  the  Fog 


But  we  cannot  tell.  Everything  depends  upon 
what  we  see  for  ourselves  within  the  next  few 
ninutes.' 

"When  we  reached  the  house,  Lyle  broke 
open  the  fastenings  of  one  of  the  windows  on  the 
ground-floor,  and,  hidden  by  the  trees  in  the 
garden,  we  scrambled  in.  We  found  ourselves 
in  the  reception-room,  which  /as  the  first  room 
on  the  right  of  the  hall.  Th  ^as  was  still  burn- 
ing behind  the  colored  glass  and  red,  silk  shades, 
and  when  the  daylight  streamed  in  after  us  it  gave 
the  hall  a  hideously  dissipated  look,  like  the  foyer 
of  a  theatre  at  a  matinee,  or  the  entrance  to  an 
all-day  gambling-hell.  The  house  was  oppres- 
sively silent,  and,  because  we  knew  why  it  was  so 
silent,  we  spoke  in  whispers.  When  Lyle  turned 
the  handle  of  the  drawing-room  door,  I  felt  as 
though  someone  had  put  his  hand  upon  my 
throat.  But  I  followed,  close  at  his  shoulder,  and 
saw,  in  the  subdued  light  of  many-tinted  lamps, 
the  body  of  Chetney  at  the  foot  of  the  divan,  just 
as  Lieutenant  Sears  had  described  it.  In  the 
drawing-room  we  found  the  body  of  the  Princess 
Zichy,  her  arms  thrown  out,  and  the  blood  from 
her  heart  frozen  in  a  tiny  line  across  her  bare 
shoulder.  But  neither  of  us,  although  we  searched 
the  floor  on  our  hands  and  knees,  could  find  the 
weapon  which  had  killed  her. 


In  the  Fog 

"  c  For  Arthur's  sake/  I  said,  c  I  would  have 
given  a  thousand  pounds  if  we  had  found  the 
knife  in  her  hand,  as  he  said  we  would.' 

" c  That  we  have  not  found  it  there,'  Lyle 
answered,  c  is  to  my  mind  the  strongest  proof  that 
he  is  telling  the  truth,  that  he  left  the  house  be- 
fore the  murder  took  place.  He  is  not  a  fool, 
and  had  he  stabbed  his  brother  and  this  woman, 
he  would  have  seen  that  by  placing  the  knife  near 
her  he  could  help  to  make  it  appear  as  if  she  had 
killed  Chetney  and  then  committed  suicide.  Be- 
sides, Lord  Arthur  insisted  that  the  evidence  in 
his  behalf  would  be  our  finding  the  knife  here. 
He  would  not  have  urged  that  if  he  knew  we 
would  not  find  it,  if  he  knew  he  himself  had  car- 
ried it  away.  This  is  no  suicide.  A  suicide  does 
not  rise  and  hide  the  weapon  with  which  he  kills 
himself,  and  then  lie  down  again.  No,  this  has 
been  a  double  murder,  and  we  must  look  outside 
of  the  house  for  the  murderer.' 

"  While  he  was  speaking,  Lyle  and  I  had  been 
searching  every  corner,  studying  the  details  of 
-each  room.  I  was  so  afraid  that,  without  telling 
me,  he  would  make  some  deductions  prejudicial 
to  Arthur,  that  I  never  left  his  side.  I  was  deter- 
mined to  see  everything  that  he  saw,  and,  if  pos- 
sible, to  prevent  his  interpreting  it  in  the  wrong 
way.  He  finally  finished  his  examination,  and  we 


In  the  Fog 

sat  down  together  in  the  drawing-room,  and  he 
took  out  his  note-book  and  read  aloud  all  that 
Mr.  Sears  had  told  him  of  the  murder  and  what 
we  had  just  learned  from  Arthur.  We  compared 
the  two  accounts,  word  for  word,  and  weighed 
statement  with  statement,  but  I  could  not  deter« 
mine,  from  anything  Lyle  said,  which  of  the  two 
versions  he  had  decided  to  believe. 

" c  We  are  trying  to  build  a  house  of  blocks/ 
he  exclaimed,  c  with  half  of  the  blocks  missing. 
We  have  been  considering  two  theories/  he  went 
on  :  c  one  that  Lord  Arthur  is  responsible  for  both 
murders,  and  the  other  that  the  dead  woman  in 
there  is  responsible  for  one  of  them,  and  has  com- 
mitted suicide ;  but,  until  the  Russian  servant  is 
ready  to  talk,  I  shall  refuse  to  believe  in  the  guilt 
of  either.' 

" c  What  can  you  prove  by  him  ?  '  I  asked. 
'  He  was  drunk  and  asleep.  He  saw  nothing.' 

"  Lyle  hesitated,  and  then,  as  though  he  had 
made  up  his  mind  to  be  quite  frank  with  me, 
spoke  freely. 

" c  I  do  not  know  that  he  was  either  drunk  or 
asleep,'  he  answered.  c  Lieutenant  Sears  describes 
him  as  a  stupid  boor.  I  am  not  satisfied  that  he 
is  not  a  clever  actor.  What  was  his  position  in 
this  house  ?  Whae  was  his  real  duty  here  ?  Sup- 
pose it  was  not  to  guard  this  woman,  but  to  watch 

127 


In  the  Fog 

her.  Let  us  imagine  that  it  was  not  the  woman 
he  served,  but  a  master,  and  see  where  that  leads 
us.  For  this  house  has  a  master,  a  mysterious, 
absentee  landlord,  who  lives  in  St.  Petersburg, 
the  unknown  Russian  who  came  between  Chetney 
and  Zichy,  and  because  of  whom  Chetney  left 
her.  He  is  the  man  who  bought  this  house  for 
Madame  Zichy,  who  sent  these  rugs  and  curtains 
from  St.  Petersburg  to  furnish  it  for  her  after  his 
own  tastes,  and,  I  believe,  it  was  he  also  who 
placed  the  Russian  servant  here,  ostensibly  to 
serve  the  Princess,  but  in  reality  to  spy  upon  her. 
At  Scotland  Yard  we  do  not  know  who  this  gen- 
tleman is ;  the  Russian  police  confess  to  equal 
ignorance  concerning  him.  When  Lord  Chetney 
went  to  Africa,  Madame  Zichy  lived  in  St.  Peters- 
burg ;  but  there  her  receptions  and  dinners  were 
so  crowded  with  members  of  the  nobility  and  of 
the  army  and  diplomats,  that,  among  so  many 
visitors,  the  police  could  not  learn  which  was  the 
one  for  whom  she  most  greatly  cared/ 

"  Lyle  pointed  at  the  modern  French  paintings 
and  the  heavy,  silk  rugs  which  hung  upon  the 
walls. 

" c  The  unknown  is  a  man  of  taste  and  of  some 
fortune/  he  said,  c  not  the  sort  of  man  to  send  a 
stupid  peasant  to  guard  the  woman  he  loves.  So 
I  am  not  content  to  believe,  with  Mr.  Sears,  that 

328 


In  the  Fog 

the  servant  is  a  boor.  I  believe  him,  instead, 
to  be  a  very  clever  ruffian.  I  believe  him  to  be 
the  protector  of  his  master's  honor,  or,  let  us  say, 
of  his  master's  property,  whether  that  property 
be  silver  plate  or  the  woman  his  master  loves. 
Last  night,  after  Lord  Arthur  had  gone  away, 
the  servant  was  left  alone  in  this  house  with  Lord 
Chetney  and  Madame  Zichy.  From  where  he 
sat  in  the  hall,  he  could  hear  Lord  Chetney  bid- 
ding her  farewell ;  for,  if  my  idea  of  him  is  cor- 
rect, he  understands  English  quite  as  well  as  you 
or  I.  Let  us  imagine  that  he  heard  her  entreat- 
ing Chetney  not  to  leave  her,  reminding  him  of 
his  former  wish  to  marry  her,  and  let  us  suppose 
that  he  hears  Chetney  denounce  her,  and  tell  her 
that  at  Cairo  he  has  learned  of  this  Russian  ad- 
mirer— the  servant's  master.  He  hears  the  wom- 
an declare  that  she  has  had  no  admirer  but  himself, 
that  this  unknown  Russian  was,  and  is,  nothing 
to  her,  that  there  is  no  man  she  loves  but  him, 
and  that  she  cannot  live,  knowing  that  he  is 
alive,  without  his  love.  Suppose  Chetney  be- 
lieved her,  suppose  his  former  infatuation  for  her 
returned,  and  that,  in  a  moment  of  weakness,  he 
forgave  her  and  took  her  in  his  arms.  That  is 
the  moment  the  Russian  master  has  feared.  It 
is  to  guard  against  it  that  he  has  placed  his  watch- 
dog over  the  Princess,  and  how  do  we  know  but 

329 


In  the  Fog 

that,  when  the  moment  came,  the  watch-dog  served 
his  master,  as  he  saw  his  duty,  and  killed  them 
both  ?  What  do  you  think  P '  Lyle  demanded. 
'  Would  not  that  explain  both  murders  ? ' 

<c  I  was  only  too  willing  to  hear  any  theory 
which  pointed  to  anyone  else  as  the  criminal  than 
Arthur,  but  Lyle's  explanation  was  too  utterly 
fantastic.  I  told  him  that  he  certainly  showed 
imagination,  but  that  he  could  not  hang  a  man 
for  what  he  imagined  he  had  done. 

" c  No/  Lyle  answered,  c  but  I  can  frighten 
him  by  telling  him  what  I  think  he  has  done,  and 
now  when  I  again  question  the  Russian  servant  I 
will  make  it  quite  clear  to  him  that  I  believe  he  is 
the  murderer.  I  think  that  will  open  his  mouth. 
A  man  will  at  least  talk  to  defend  himself. 
Come/  he  said,  c  we  must  return  at  once  to  Scot- 
land Yard  and  see  him.  There  is  nothing  more 
to  do  here/ 

"  He  arose,  and  I  followed  him  into  the  hall, 
and  in  another  minute  we  would  have  been  on 
our  way  to  Scotland  Yard.  But  just  as  he  opened 
the  street-door  a  postman  halted  at  the  gate  of 
the  garden,  and  began  fumbling  with  the  latch. 

"  Lyle  stopped,  with  an  exclamation  of  chagrin. 

"  c  How  stupid  of  me  ! '  he  exclaimed.  He 
turned  quickly  and  pointed  to  a  narrow  slit  cut 
in  the  brass  plate  of  the  front  door.  '  The  house 

330 


In  the  Fog 

has  a  private  letter-box/  he  said,  eand  I  had  not 
thought  to  look  in  it !  If  we  had  gone  out  as  we 
came  in,  by  the  window,  I  would  never  have  seen 
it.  The  moment  I  entered  the  house  I  should 
have  thought  of  securing  the  letters  which  came 
this  morning.  I  have  been  grossly  careless/ 
He  stepped  back  into  the  hall  and  pulled  at  the 
lid  of  the  letter-box,  which  hung  on  the  inside  of 
the  door,  but  it  was  tightly  locked.  At  the  same 
moment  the  postman  came  up  the  steps  holding 
a  letter.  Without  a  word,  Lyle  took  it  from  his 
hand  and  began  to  examine  it.  It  was  addressed 
to  the  Princess  Zichy,  and  on  the  back  of  the 
envelope  was  the  name  of  a  West  End  dress- 
maker. 

" £  That  is  of  no  use  to  me/  Lyle  said.  He 
took  out  his  card  and  showed  it  to  the  postman. 
*  I  am  Inspector  Lyle  from  Scotland  Yard/  he 
said.  c  The  people  in  this  house  are  under  ar- 
rest. Everything  it  contains  is  now  in  my  keep- 
ing. Did  you  deliver  any  other  letters  here  this 
morning  ? ' 

"  The  man  looked  frightened,  but  answered, 
promptly,  that  he  was  now  upon  his  third  round. 
He  had  made  one  postal  delivery  at  seven  that 
morning  and  another  at  eleven. 

<£CHow  many  letters  did  you  leave  here?' 
Lyle  asked 


In  the  Fog 

* €  About  six  altogether/  the  man  answered. 

fCCDid  you  put  them  through  the  door  into 
the  letter-box  ? ' 

"  The  postman  said,  c  Yes,  I  always  slip  them 
into  the  box,  and  ring  and  go  away.  The  ser- 
vants collect  them  from  the  inside/ 

"  '  Have  you  noticed  if  any  of  the  letters  you 
leave  here  bear  a  Russian  postage-stamp  ? '  Lyle 
asked. 

" '  The  man  answered,  '  Oh,  yes,  sir,  a  great 
many/ 

" c  From  the  same  person,  would  you  say  ? ' 

"  *  The  writing  seems  to  be  the  same/  the  man 
answered.  '  They  come  regularly  about  once  a 
week — one  of  those  I  delivered  this  morning  had 
a  Russian  postmark/ 

"  *  That  will  do/  said  Lyle,  eagerly.  c  Thank 
you,  thank  you  very  much/ 

"  He  ran  back  into  the  hall,  and,  pulling  out 
his  penknife,  began  to  pick  at  the  lock  of  the 
letter-box. 

" c  I  have  been  supremely  careless/  he  said,  in 
great  excitement.  c  Twice  before  when  people  I 
wanted  had  flown  from  a  house  I  have  been  able 
to  follow  them  by  putting  a  guard  over  their  mail- 
box. These  letters,  which  arrive  regularly  every 
week  from  Russia  in  the  same  handwriting,  they 
can  come  but  from  one  person.  At  least,  we 

332 


In  the  Fog 

shall  now  know  the  name  of  the  master  of  this 
house.  Undoubtedly,  it  is  one  of  his  letters  that 
the  man  placed  here  this  morning.  We  may 
make  a  most  important  discovery.' 

"  As  he  was  talking  he  was  picking  at  the  lock 
with  his  knife,  but  he  was  so  impatient  to  reach 
the  letters  that  he  pressed  too  heavily  on  the 
blade  and  it  broke  in  his  hand.  I  took  a  step 
backward  and  drove  my  heel  into  the  lock,  and 
burst  it  open.  The  lid  flew  back,  and  we  pressed 
forward,  and  each  ran  his  hand  down  into  the 
letter-box.  For  a  moment  we  were  both  too  star- 
tled to  move.  The  box  was  empty. 

"  I  do  not  know  how  long  we  stood,  staring 
stupidly  at  each  other,  but  it  was  Lyle  who  was 
the  first  to  recover.  He  seized  me  by  the  arm 
and  pointed  excitedly  into  the  empty  box. 

cc  c  Do  you  appreciate  what  that  means  ?  *  he 
cried.  c  It  means  that  someone  has  been  here 
ahead  of  us.  Someone  has  entered  this  house 
not  three  hours  before  we  came,  since  eleven 
o'clock  this  morning.' 

"  c  It  was  the  Russian  servant !  *  I  exclaimed. 

<c  c  The  Russian  servant  has  been  under  arrest 
at  Scotland  Yard,'  Lyle  cried.  c  He  could  not 
have  taken  the  letters.  Lord  Arthur  has  been  in 
his  cot  at  the  hospital.  That  is  his  alibi.  There 
is  someone  else,  someone  we  do  not  suspect^ 

333 


In  the  Fog 

and  that  someone  is  the  murderer.  He  came 
back  here  either  to  obtain  those  letters  because 
he  knew  they  would  convict  him,  or  to  remove 
something  he  had  left  here  at  the  time  of  the 
murder,  something  incriminating — the  weapon, 
perhaps,  or  some  personal  article  ;  a  cigarette-case, 
a  handkerchief  with  his  name  upon  it,  or  a  pair  ot 
gloves.  Whatever  it  was,  it  must  have  been 
damning  evidence  against  him  to  have  made  him 
take  so  desperate  a  chance.' 

" c  How  do  we  know/  I  whispered,  c  that  he  is 
not  hidden  here  now  ?  * 

cccNo,  Til  swear  he  is  not,*  Lyle  answered.  CI 
may  have  bungled  in  some  things,  but  I  have 
searched  this  house  thoroughly.  Nevertheless/ 
he  added,  c  we  must  go  over  it  again,  from  the 
cellar  to  the  roof.  We  have  the  real  clew  now, 
and  we  must  forget  the  others  and  work  only  it.' 
As  he  spoke  he  began  again  to  search  the  draw- 
ing-room, turning  over  even  the  books  on  the 
tables  and  the  music  on  the  piano. 

"'Whoever  the  man  is/  he  said,  over  his 
shoulder,  'we  know  that  he  has  a  key  to  thtf 
front  door  and  a  key  to  the  letter-box.  That 
shows  us  he  is  either  an  inmate  of  the  house  ot 
that  he  comes  here  when  he  wishes.  The  Rus- 
sian says  that  he  was  the  only  servant  in  the 
house.  Certainly  j  we  have  found  no  evidence  to 

334 


In  the  Fog 

show  that  any  other  servant  slept  here.  There 
could  be  but  one  other  person  who  would  pos- 
sess a  key  to  the  house  and  the  letter-box — • 
and  he  lives  in  St.  Petersburg.  At  the  time 
of  the  murder  he  was  two  thousand  miles  away.' 
Lyle  interrupted  himself,  suddenly,  with  a  sharp 
cry,  and  turned  upon  me,  with  his  eyes  flashing. 
'  But  was  he?'  he  cried.  'Was  he?  How  do 
we  know  that  last  night  he  was  not  in  London, 
in  this  very  house  when  Zichy  and  Chetney 
met?' 

"  He  stood,  staring  at  me  without  seeing  me, 
muttering,  and  arguing  with  himself. 

" c  Don't  speak  to  me,'  he  cried,  as  I  ventured 
to  interrupt  him.  c  I  can  see  it  now.  It  is  all 
plain.  It  was  not  the  servant,  but  his  master, 
the  Russian  himself,  and  it  was  he  who  came  back 
for  the  letters  !  He  came  back  for  them  because 
he  knew  they  would  convict  him.  We  must  find 
them.  We  must  have  those  letters.  If  we  find 
the  one  with  the  Russian  postmark,  we  shall  have 
found  the  murderer.'  He  spoke  like  a  madman, 
and  as  he  spoke  he  ran  around  the  room,  with  one 
hand  held  out  in  front  of  him  as  you  have  seen  a 
mind-reader  at  a  theatre  seeking  for  something 
hidden  in  the  stalls.  He  pulled  the  old  letters 
from  the  writing-desk,  and  ran  them  over  as 
swiftly  as  a  gambler  deals  out  cards ;  he  dropped 

335 


# 

In  the  Fog 

on  his  knees  before  the  fireplace  and  dragged  out 
the  dead  coals  with  his  bare  ringers,  and  then, 
with  a  low,  worried  cry,  like  a  hound  on  a  scent, 
he  ran  back  to  the  waste-paper  basket  and,  lifting 
the  papers  from  it,  shook  them  out  upon  the 
floor.  Instantly,  he  gave  a  shout  of  triumph,  and, 
separating  a  number  of  torn  pieces  from  the 
others,  held  them  up  before  me. 

"'Look!"  he  cried.  c  Do  you  see?  Here 
are  five  letters,  torn  across  in  two  places.  The 
Russian  did  not  stop  to  read  them,  for,  as  you 
see,  he  has  left  them  still  sealed.  I  have  been 
wrong.  He  did  not  return  for  the  letters.  He 
could  not  have  known  their  value.  He  must 
have  returned  for  some  other  reason,  and,  as  he 
was  leaving,  saw  the  letter-box,  and,  taking  out 
the  letters,  held  them  together — so — and  tore 
them  twice  across,  and  then,  as  the  fire  had  gone 
out,  tossed  them  into  this  basket.  Look ! '  he 
cried,  c  here  in  the  upper  corner  of  this  piece  is 
a  Russian  stamp.  This  is  his  own  letter — un- 
opened !* 

"  We  examined  the  Russian  stamp  and  found 
it  had  been  cancelled  in  St.  Petersburg  four  days 
ago.  The  back  of  the  envelope  bore  the  post- 
mark of  the  branch-station  in  upper  Sloane  Street, 
and  was  dated  this  morning.  The  envelope  was 
of  official,  blue  paper*  and  we  had  no  difficulty  in 

336 


In  the  Fog 

finding  the  other  two  parts  of  it.  We  drew  the 
torn  pieces  of  the  letter  from  them  and  joined 
them  together,  side  by  side.  There  were  but  two 
lines  of  writing,  and  this  was  the  message :  c  T 
leave  Petersburg  on  the  night-train,  and  I  shal 
see  you  at  Trevor  Terrace,  after  dinner,  Monday 
evening.' 

"  c  That  was  last  night ! '  Lyle  cried.  c  He 
arrived  twelve  hours  ahead  of  his  letter — but  it 
came  in  time — it  came  in  time  to  hang  him  ! ' 

The  Baronet  struck  the  table  with  his  hand. 

"  The  name  !  "  he  demanded.  "  How  was  it 
signed  ?  What  was  the  man's  name  ?  " 

The  young  Solicitor  rose  to  his  feet  and,  lean- 
ing forward,  stretched  out  his  arm.  "  There  was 
no  name,"  he  cried.  "  The  letter  was  signed  with 
only  two  initials.  But  engraved  at  the  top  of  the 
sheet  was  the  man's  address.  That  address  was 
c  THE  AMERICAN  EMBASSY,  ST.  PETERSBURG, 
BUREAU  OF  THE  NAVAL  ATTACHE,'  and  the  ini- 
tials," he  shouted,  his  voice  rising  into  an  exult- 
ant and  bitter  cry,  "  were  those  of  the  gentleman 
who  sits  opposite  who  told  us  that  he  was  the 
first  to  find  the  murdered  bodies,  the  Naval  At- 
tache to  Russia,  Lieutenant  Sears ! " 

A  strained  and  awful  hush  followed  the  Solici- 
tor's words,  which  seemed  to  vibrate  like  a  twang- 
ing bowstring  that  had  just  hurled  its  bolt.  Sir 

337 


In  the  Fog 

Andrew,  pale  and  staring,  drew  away,  with  an  ex- 
clamation  of  repulsion.  His  eyes  were  fastened 
upon  the  Naval  Attache  with  fascinated  horror. 
But  the  American  emitted  a  sigh  of  great  content, 
and  sank,  comfortably,  into  the  arms  of  his  chair. 
He  clapped  his  hands,  softly,  together. 

"  Capital ! "  he  murmured.  "  I  give  you  my 
word  I  never  guessed  what  you  were  driving  at. 
You  fooled  me,  I'll  be  hanged  if  you  didn't — you 
certainly  fooled  me." 

The  man  with  the  pearl  stud  leaned  forward, 
with  a  nervous  gesture.  "  Hush  !  be  careful !  " 
he  whispered.  But  at  that  instant,  for  the  third 
time,  a  servant,  hastening  through  the  room, 
handed  him  a  piece  of  paper  which  he  scanned 
eagerly.  The  message  on  the  paper  read,  "The 
light  over  the  Commons  is  out.  The  House  has 


risen." 


The  man  with  the  black  pearl  gave  a  mighty 
shout,  and  tossed  the  paper  from  him  upon  the 
table. 

"  Hurrah  ! "  he  cried.  "  The  House  is  up  ! 
We've  won !  "  He  caught  up  his  glass,  and  slapped 
the  Naval  Attache,  violently,  upon  the  shoul- 
der. He  nodded  joyously  at  him,  at  the  Solicitor, 
and  at  the  Queen's  Messenger.  "  Gentlemen, 
to  you ! "  he  cried ;  "  my  thanks  and  my  con- 
gratulations I "  He  drank  deep  from  the  glass, 

338 


In  the  Fog 

and  breathed  forth  a  long  sigh  of  satisfaction  and 
relief. 

"  But  I  say,"  protested  the  Queen's  Messenger, 
shaking  his  finger,  violently,  at  the  Solicitor,  "  that 
story  won't  do.  You  didn't  play  fair — and — and 
you  talked  so  fast  I  couldn't  make  out  what  it 
was  all  about.  I'll  bet  you  that  evidence  wouldn't 
hold  in  a  court  of  law — you  couldn't  hang  a  cat 
on  such  evidence.  Your  story  is  condemned 
tommy-rot.  Now,  my  story  might  have  hap- 
pened, my  story  bore  the  mark " 

In  the  joy  of  creation,  the  story-tellers  had  for- 
gotten their  audience,  until  a  sudden  exclamation 
from  Sir  Andrew  caused  them  to  turn,  guiltily,  tow- 
ard him.  His  face  was  knit  with  lines  of  anger, 
doubt,  and  amazement. 

"  What  does  this  mean  ?  "  he  cried.  "  Is  this 
a  jest,  or  are  you  mad  ?  If  you  know  this  man 
is  a  murderer,  why  is  he  at  large  ?  Is  this  a  game 
you  have  been  playing?  Explain  yourselves  at 
once.  What  does  it  mean  ? " 

The  American,  with  first  a  glance  at  the  others, 
rose  and  bowed,  courteously. 

"I  am  not  a  murderer,  Sir  Andrew,  believe 
me,"  he  said  ;  cc  you  need  not  be  alarmed.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  at  this  moment  I  am  much  more 
afrakl  of  you  than  you  could  possibly  be  of  me. 
I  beg  you,  please  to  be  indulgent.  I  assure  you, 

339 


In  the  Fog 

we  meant  no  disrespect.  We  have  been  match* 
ing  stories,  that  is  all,  pretending  that  we  are 
people  we  are  not,  endeavoring  to  entertain  you 
with  better  detective-tales  than,  for  instance,  the 
last  one  you  read,  'The  Great  Rand  Robbery.'" 

The  Baronet  brushed  his  hand,  nervously, 
across  his  forehead. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,"  he  exclaimed, 
cf  that  none  of  this  has  happened  ?  That  Lord 
Chetney  is  not  dead,  that  his  Solicitor  did  not  find 
a  letter  of  yours,  written  from  your  post  in  Peters- 
burg, and  that  just  now,  when  he  charged  you 
with  murder,  he  was  in  jest  ?  " 

"  I  am  really  very  sorry,"  said  the  American, 
cc  but  you  see,  sir,  he  could  not  have  found  a 
letter  written  by  me  in  St.  Petersburg  because  I 
have  never  been  in  Petersburg.  Until  this  week, 
I  have  never  been  outside  of  my  own  country. 
I  am  not  a  naval  officer.  I  am  a  writer  of  short 
stories.  And  to-night,  when  this  gentleman  told 
me  that  you  were  fond  of  detective-stories,  I 
thought  it  would  be  amusing  to  tell  you  one  of 
my  own — one  I  had  just  mapped  out  this  after- 
noon." 

"  But  Lord  Chetney  is  a  real  person,"  inter- 
rupted the  Baronet,  "and  he  did  go  to  Africa 
two  years  ago,  and  he  was  supposed  to  have  died 
there,  and  his  brother,  Lord  Arthur,  has  been  the 


In  the  Fog 

heir.  And  yesterday  Chetney  did  return.  I  read 
it  in  the  papers." 

"  So  did  I,"  assented  the  American,  soothingly  ; 
"  and  it  struck  me  as  being  a  very  good  plot  for 
a  story.  I  mean  his  unexpected  return  from  the 
dead,  and  the  probable  disappointment  of  the 
younger  brother.  So  I  decided  that  the  younger 
brother  had  better  murder  the  older  one.  The 
Princess  Zichy  I  invented  out  of  a  clear  sky. 
The  fog  I  did  not  have  to  invent.  Since  last 
night  I  know  all  that  there  is  to  know  about  a 
London  fog.  I  was  lost  in  one  for  three  hours." 

The  Baronet  turned,  grimly,  upon  the  Queen's 
Messenger. 

"  But  this  gentleman,"  he  protested,  "  he  is 
not  a  writer  of  short  stories ;  he  is  a  member  of 
the  Foreign  Office.  I  have  often  seen  him  in 
Whitehall,  and,  according  to  him,  the  Princess 
Zichy  is  not  an  invention.  He  says  she  is  very 
well  known,  that  she  tried  to  rob  him." 

The  servant  of  the  Foreign  Office  looked,  un- 
happily, at  the  Cabinet  Minister,  and  puffed,  ner- 
vously, on  his  cigar. 

"  It's  true,  Sir  Andrew,  that  I  am  a  Queen's 
Messenger,"  he  said,  appealingly,  "  and  a  Russian 
woman  once  did  try  to  rob  a  Queen's  Messenger 
in  a  railway  carriage — only  it  did  not  happen  to 
me,  but  to  a  pal  of  mine.  The  only  Russian 

34i 


In   the  Fog 

princess  I  ever  knew  called  herself  Zabrisky, 
You  may  have  seen  her.  She  used  to  do  a  dive 
from  the  roof  of  the  Aquarium." 

Sir  Andrew,  with  a  snort  of  indignation,  fronted 
the  young  Solicitor. 

"  And  I  suppose  yours  was  a  cock-and-bull 
story,  too,"  he  said.  "  Of  course,  it  must  have 
been,  since  Lord  Chetney  is  not  dead.  But  don't 
tell  me,"  he  protested,  "  that  you  are  not  Chud- 
leigh's  son  either." 

"  I'm  sorry,"  said  the  youngest  member,  smil- 
ing, in  some  embarrassment,  "  but  my  name  is  not 
Chudleigh.  I  assure  you,  though,  that  I  know 
the  family  very  well,  and  that  I  am  on  very  good 
terms  with  them." 

"  You  should  be  !  "  exclaimed  the  Baronet ; 
"  and,  judging  from  the  liberties  you  take  with 
the  Chetneys,  you  had  better  be  on  very  good 
terms  with  them,  too." 

The  young  man  leaned  back  and  glanced  tow- 
ard the  servants  at  the  far  end  of  the  room. 

"  It  has  been  so  long  since  I  have  been  in  the 
Club,"  he  said,  cc  that  I  doubt  if  even  the  waiters 
remember  me.  Perhaps  Joseph  may,"  he  added. 
"  Joseph  !  "  he  called,  and  at  the  word  a  servant 
stepped  briskly  forward. 

The  young  man  pointed  to  the  stuffed  head  of  a 
great  lion  which  was  suspended  above  the  fireplace, 

342 


*•  What  was  the  object  of  your  plot 


In  the  Fog 

cc  Joseph/'  he  said,  "  I  want  you  to  tell  these 
gentlemen  who  shot  that  lion.  Who  presented  it 
to  the  Grill  ?  " 

Joseph,  unused  to  acting  as  master  of  cere- 
monies to  members  of  the  Club,  shifted,  nervously, 
from  one  foot  to  the  other. 

"  Why,  you — you  did,"  he  stammered. 

cc  Of  course  I  did  !j'  exclaimed  the  young  man, 
cc  I  mean,  what  is  the  name  of  the  man  who  shot 
it?  Tell  the  gentlemen  who  I  am.  They  wouldn't 
believe  me." 

"  Who  you  are,  my  lord  ?  "  said  Joseph.  "  You 
are  Lord  Edam's  son,  the  Earl  of  Chetney." 

"  You  must  admit,"  said  Lord  Chetney,  when 
the  noise  had  died  away,  "  that  I  couldn't  remain 
dead  while  my  little  brother  was  accused  of  mur- 
der. I  had  to  do  something.  Family  pride  de- 
manded it.  Now,  Arthur,  as  the  younger  brother, 
can't  afford  to  be  squeamish,  but,  personally,  I 
should  hate  to  have  a  brother  of  mine  hanged 
for  murder." 

"You  certainly  showed  no  scruples  against 
hanging  me,"  said  the  American,  "  but,  in  the 
face  of  your  evidence,  I  admit  my  guilt,  and  I 
sentence  myself  to  pay  the  full  penalty  of  the  law 
as  we  are  made  to  pay  it  in  my  own  country. 
The  order  of  this  court  is,"  he  announced,  "  that 
Joseph  shall  bring  me  a  wine-card,  and  that  I 

34,3 


In  the  Fog 

sign  it  for  five  bottles  of  the  Club's  best  cham« 
pagne." 

"  Oh,  no  ! "  protested  the  man  with  the  pearl 
stud, <c  it  is  not  for  you  to  sigfi  it.  In  my  opin't  n, 
it  is  Sir  Andrew  who  should  pay  the  costs.  It  is 
time  you  knew,"  he  said,  turning  to  that  gentle- 
man, "  that,  unconsciously,  you  have  been  the 
victim  of  what  I  may  call  a  patriotic  conspiracy. 
These  stories  have  had  a  more  serious  purpose 
than  merely  to  amuse.  They  have  been  told 
with  the  worthy  object  of  detaining  you  from  the 
House  of  Commons.  I  must  explain  to  you 
that,  all  through  this  evening,  I  have  had  a  servant 
waiting  in  Trafalgar  Square  with  instructions  to 
bring  me  word  as  soon  as  the  light  over  the 
House  of  Commons  had  ceased  to  burn.  The 
light  is  now  out,  and  the  object  for  which  we 
plotted  is  attained." 

The  Baronet  glanced,  keenly,  at  the  man  with 
the  black  pearl,  and  then,  quickly,  at  his  watch. 
The  smile  disappeared  from  his  lips,  and  his  face 
was  set  in  stern  and  forbidding  lines. 

"  And  may  I  know,"  he  asked,  icily,  "  what  was 
the  object  of  your  plot  ?  " 

"A  most  worthy  one,"  the  other  retorted. 
<c  Our  object  was  to  keep  you  from  advocating 
the  expenditure  of  many  millions  of  the  people's 
money  upon  more  battle-ships.  In  a  word,  we 

344 


In  the  Fog 

have  been  working  together  to  prevent  you  from 
passing  the  Navy  Increase  Bill." 

Sir  Andrew's  face  bloomed  with  brilliant  color. 
His  body  shook  with  suppressed  emotion. 

"  My  dear  sir  !  "  he  cried,  "  you  should  spend 
more  time  at  the  House  and  less  at  your  Club. 
The  Navy  Bill  was  brought  up  on  its  third  read- 
ing at  eight  o'clock  this  evening.  I  spoke  for 
three  hours  in  its  favor.  My  only  reason  for 
wishing  to  return  again  to  the  House  to-night 
was  to  sup  on  the  terrace  with  my  old  friend, 
Admiral  Simons ;  for  my  work  at  the  House 
was  completed  five  hours  ago,  when  the  Navy 
Increase  Bill  was  passed  by  an  overwhelming 
majority." 

The  Baronet  rose  and  bowed.  "  I  have  to 
thank  you,  sir,"  he  said,  "for  a  most  interesting 
evening." 

The  American  shoved  the  wine-card  which 
J  oseph  had  given  him  toward  the  gentleman  with 
the  black  pearl. 

"  You  sign  it,"  he  said 


THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SANTA  CRUZ 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  DATE  stamped  below. 


100m-8,'65(F6282s8)2373 


3  2106  00206  6543 


